


A Year in Australia

by bourbonrain



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Consensual Violence, Dark, Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Post-Battle of Hogwarts, Prostitution, Rough Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-03
Updated: 2018-09-19
Packaged: 2018-12-10 13:41:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 29,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11692821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bourbonrain/pseuds/bourbonrain
Summary: When Draco runs away to Australia to escape society's wrath after the war, he encounters none other than lauded war hero, Hermione Granger, seducing a client at a high-end bar. He helps himself to what she's offering.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's note (April 2018):
> 
> 1) Disclaimer: I lay no claim on JK Rowling's genius, and am ever thankful to get to play around with the amazing characters she's created.
> 
> 2) I've made some rather noticeable edits to this story, especially of this first chapter. The plot is still generally the same, but the emotional dynamics are slightly different. Also, there were some parts I had to clean up because they made me wince when I was re-reading. I like it better now, and I hope you do too.
> 
> 3) WARNING: This story depicts scenes of a sexual nature, which are at times violent and can be construed as dubious consent. Please proceed with caution if this could be a trigger for you

 

* * *

He earns eleven NEWTs after returning to Hogwarts. Not that it matters. No one wants to offer a future, not even a dim one, to an ex-Death Eater. Especially not Dumbledore's purported assassin, the boy who let the Dark Lord's forces into Hogwarts.

By the time graduation passes, all three Malfoys have been acquitted. Not that _this_ matters either. In the court of public opinion, they may as well have been hung.

Back in the manor, dark memories linger throughout his childhood home. The dungeons where the screams of innocent Muggles echoed as Voldemort's more sadistic followers had gleefully practiced dark curses. The long, formal dining table, where the Dark Lord and his inner circle had obsessively plotted the demise of a seventeen-year old boy. The ballroom in which his maniacal aunt had brutally tortured then sliced up one of his muggle-born classmates. Even his own bedroom wasn't safe, for it was where he had cowered and resented himself for middling between the wrath of a homicidal dictator and his own loss of innocence.

* * *

When Pansy and Blaise announce that they're going to Australia to escape the stigma, at least for the Southern Hemisphere summer, he packs his bags immediately to join them.

His friends are not recognized in wizarding Sydney, but his tell-tale Malfoy platinum hair earns him frequent glares. He uses glamours to darken his hair and alter his face daily, wears long sleeves, and avoids telling anyone his family name.

They move into a penthouse beside the South Pacific coast. Draco likes the modern finishes and sleek lines of the architecture – day if the manor is night. He also likes that it's outside of the magical world.

They spend a few days each week lounging on the muggle beach a stone's throw away from their quarters. He and Blaise learn to surf, while Pansy works on her tan and reads. Everyone is surprised at how bronzed Draco's porcelain skin gets.

Evenings are spent exploring the nightlife in both wizarding and muggle Sydney. They sip spirits and smoke weed on their patio, conversing to a backdrop of darkness and crashing waves until reds and oranges tinge the sky. For weeks, they move from one high to another, and chase it all down with vials of dreamless sleep. Drugged up and nightmare-free, he feels... normal, like the debaucherous teenager he would have been if Voldemort's rise hadn't impinged so disastrously on his adolescence.

Sex helps too, another pleasant distraction to take the edge off. It's an unspoken rule that hooks-up with each other are off-limits. And anyway, barely a month passes before Pansy becomes enamored with a tall, dark-haired, Australian half-blood and takes herself off the market.

"It's just for the summer," she says. But they've never seen her so _happy_. His name is Trevor, and she forbids either of her friends from mentioning the pureblood supremacist nature of her parents. Blaise and Draco shrug. The war is over. And they've literally run away to Australia to escape the shackles of their parents' dark ambitions.

Trevor becomes an unofficial fourth roommate. The guys like having him around. He's particularly helpful during their forays into muggle Sydney. They're floored by the vastness, complexity, and technologies of the muggle world. When Trevor introduces them all to the mobile phone, complete with touchscreens and the "Internet," Pansy becomes enamored with something called "Instagram," while Blaise spends a curious amount of time using something called "Tinder." And Draco, well, he's enamored with the anonymity the muggle world affords him.

Unlike Blaise, who always seems to be falling for one woman or another, Draco sticks to one night stands. He doesn't think he could stomach showing up to date number four still disguised with glamours, or explaining how his real last name is one internationally synonymous with bigotry and illegal magic.

So he settles for the not-too-shabby consolation prize of adding notches to his bedpost. He usually gets to know them a little first. That way he can have at least a little sincerity when he tells a woman how incredible and intelligent and gorgeous she is. He gets a rush from the sort of intimacy he gets in return, where he feels cared for and adored, if only for a few hours. On some level, he knows it's cruel to make promises he can't keep, but he can't help it. In those moments, when they look at him like he's prince charming, fucking almost feels like love.

* * *

One night, in March, Draco finds himself alone. Pansy and Trevor are out celebrating their two-month anniversary. Blaise is on a date with his latest flirtation, an Elvira or Alicia or something of the sort. Feeling all too sober and lonely, Draco decides to go out on his own. He's become accustomed to well-crafted muggle cocktails and particularly likes those served at high-end hotel bars.

The bartender smiles sweetly at him as she sets his drink down. Draco looks her up and down, as he hands her a credit card. She's tall and lithe. He can imagine her small breasts bouncing to the rhythm of his thrusts. Those long legs wrapping around him. She'll do.

As he sips his drink, a familiar voice travels to his ears from a few seats down. Dread tingles behind his ears as he turns and sees Hermione Granger. She's talking to a man, who looks to be her father or an uncle, acting significantly less swotty and bossy than he remembers.

He looks down into his drink, and thinks back to his training with Snape. He slows his breath and wills his heart to stop pounding blood in his ears. Tonight, his hair and eyes are both dark brown. His brow and nose are thicker and wider. His ex-schoolmate is unlikely to recognize him, so there is no reason to run.

Still, her presence unnerves him. _Granger,_ of all people to appear from his past. The bravest, cleverest muggle-born, the princess of the Golden Trio, the goddamn antithesis of his cowardly, pureblood Death Eater self. What the hell is _she_ doing here?

He pulls out a few bills and sets them beside his unfinished drink. He pulls out his phone and pretends to look at it as he gets up to leave. One foot in front of the other. He glances at her as he walks past. Her hair is in graceful curls that cascade past her shoulders. Her dress is backless and holy shit, is the man putting his hand _there?_ Draco stops in his tracks and gapes as her companion runs his hands down to her arse. His eyes further widen when she runs her hand over his thigh and whispers something in his ear.

So definitely _not_ her father then. Or her uncle.

Draco leans in closer to hear better.

"-promise I'm worth every penny, baby."

He blinks as her tongue darts out flicks the older man's earlobe.

Draco computes the situation the best he can. Instead of skipping down Diagon Alley with Potter and Weasel in all the weekly parades Wizarding Britain is likely to be throwing the heroes who vanquished the Dark Lord, Hermione Granger is _whoring_ _herself_ to a not-very-attractive older man in muggle Sydney. What the holy fuck?

Then, his inner Slytherin sees an opportunity. Once the idea forms, he can't get it out of his head and he acts before the practical, non-inebriated parts of him can protest properly.

He quickly glances at his reflection in the mirror behind the bar, satisfied that he looks nothing like the boy Granger had known.

"Excuse me."

Granger glares at the stranger who interrupts her sales pitch, while her elderly companion suddenly looks quite skittish. Draco holds back a smirk as the man quickly withdraws his hand from her bum.

"Yes?" she bites out.

"Excuse me, miss, but I just want a word with your friend here," he drawls. "Sir, don't I know you from somewhere? I think my mum and your wife are part of the same garden club."

The man moves to stand, blatantly avoiding eye contact with Draco. "No, I don't think so young man. Sorry, miss, but I have to uh – erm, well the drinks are on me." He quickly fishes out a few bills and strides out of the bar.

Granger's glare intensifies. "What's your problem?"

Draco slides into the seat occupied by the other man. "Oh come now, is that the proper way to speak to a potential customer?"

Her eyes soften somewhat, but her lips remain pursed. "From where I'm sitting, you've only been bad for business so far."

He shrugs. "What's your name?"

"Lara," she responds without missing a beat.

His eyes narrow at the pseudonym, but who is he to judge. He isn't even wearing his own face at the moment.

"Well, Lara. I'm Drew. And I apologize for scaring off your friend there, but I was rather interested in you myself, you see."

"And what makes you think I'd be interested in you?"

"That old guy versus me?" he scoffed. "Come on. I have to be the lesser evil."

She remains silent as he motions for another Manhattan. The bartender doesn't wink at him this time when she slides him the drink.

"You're rather presumptuous, aren't you?" she says slowly, sipping her own drink. "And arrogant."

"Most girls prefer handsome guys their own age rather than old, rotund sweaty types with receding hairlines."

She rolls her eyes. The gesture is so very _Granger_.

"So you think you're handsome."

"You don't think so?"

"Looks aren't everything."

"Oh, I know," Draco grins in spite of himself. "I know exactly what you working girls want in a man and I promise you won't be disappointed in the size of my … assets."

Her nostrils flare slightly. She signals to the bartender. "At least get a girl drunk before you tell her what she looks for in a man."

They don't speak as the bartender pours them each a new beverage. He gets a bourbon neat and she gets an extra dirty vodka martini.

"So you're saying you can afford me," she says, as she eats an olive.

He watches her reddened lips wrap themselves around the garnish. He's seen that same mouth twisted open in agony, her petite body convulsing in pain he knows first hand to be excruciating.

"Why so prickly, Lara? You might make a guy think you're not interested."

Her voice is hushed when she speaks. "Of course I'm interested. As long as you're paying. It's a thousand an hour. Ten grand overnight. Extra charges may apply"

Draco whistles and grins. "Do you take credit card?"

She gives him a small smile in return that doesn't reach her eyes. "Of course."

She becomes less chilly once he agrees to her terms.

It's not that he particularly wants to fuck Granger, though he isn't about to give up such an opportunity either. Plus, he's pretty damn curious about the hows and whys of her situation.

His stomach growls and he starts to regret drinking on an empty stomach, but he orders them both shots of tequila anyway.

Getting drunk with Granger is different than he expects. He's always known her to be proper, and _moral_ , and itching to show off everything she knows about everything.

The Lara-version of her is softer and duller, like a caricature of a seductress.

"I want to taste you," she says. She touches his thigh and leans in close enough for him to smell that she's not wearing any perfume. He lets her brush her lips against his, her tongue darting out gently to sample his lime-stained mouth.

He briefly acknowledges that there will be a special place in hell for him – Death Eater and defiler of Gryffindor's muggle-born princess.

They stop by the front desk for him to reserve the penthouse suite.

Champagne and a charcuterie plate are sent upstairs. As he eats, she takes his credit card and swipes it on a small attachment to her phone. Muggles, he thinks. So efficient with transfers of funds.

She hands him back his card, then hooks her phone up to the music player by the nightstand. A song comes on with a sultry voice and a retro beat. He watches as she steps out of her heels and sways back and forth to the music, occasionally sipping the chilled champagne. She looks older with her smoky eyes, rouged cheeks, and slinky dress, but he catches glimmers of the Granger from Hogwarts underneath.

He finds a slightly crushed joint in his wallet and they share it on the balcony.

"What’s a fellow Brit like you doing in Sydney?" he asked. 

"England got a bit… suffocating after a while. And besides, my parents are here and I'm visiting them."

He has a flashback of Voldemort lauding the Lestranges' massacre of the Bones family and nods.

"So shouldn't you be spending time with Mummy and Daddy? Not skulking about with bad men in hotel rooms?"

"Are you a bad man?"

"The worst."

She snorts. "I highly doubt that."

"Know a lot of bad men, do you?"

"Something like that."

She takes a deep hit from the joint and coughs. He hands her the champagne bottle and she swigs directly from it, though the bubbles do little to soothe her aching throat.

He smirks as her eyes glaze over.

"What brings you to Sydney, Drew?" Her words are slow and slurred.

He sips a hit from the tail end of the joint and tosses the rest from the balcony.

"Surf. And sun."

"Right. A bit of a trust-fund baby, aren't you?"

She's studying him with wide, dark eyes, still coughing slightly.

He laughs. "So to summarize… so far, you've told me that I'm an arrogant and presumptive spoiled brat, but not the worst man you've ever met. Is that right?"

She refills both their glasses of champagne. "Doesn't seem wrong."

"You're the worst whore I've ever met, you know? Shouldn't you be kissing my arse a bit more? I'm certainly paying you enough."

"Is that what you want?"

He keeps his expression light. "I'll take whatever you want to give me, Lara."

Somehow, she ends up in his arms. Together, they sway to the faint notes of music audible from the room. The moon is out. Faintly, they can hear and smell the ocean over the sounds of the city. It's almost romantic. He briefly thinks about how she'd react if she knew who he really was.

He insists that the lights are off when they disrobe. Good thing Dark Marks don't glow in the dark.

Her mouth is hot on his throat and her fingers are gentle as she runs them across his chest, over his abs, and down to his belt.

He finds the small knot keeping her dress up at the base of her neck. A quick pull and the top pools around her hips. Her skin is the softest he's ever felt, but that could be the high talking. Her breasts are larger than he expected, soft handfuls of womanliness topped with hardened, sensitive nubs.

She makes a breathy, desperate sound when his mouth wraps around one nipple while his fingers tease the other. He moans, and maybe she does too, when she slips a hand into his boxers and thumbs the head of his cock. He lets her pushes him into a chair and fuck, her mouth is so hot and velvety around him. She swirls her tongue around his frenulum and then brings her head down so that he's pushed against the back of her mouth. His fingers are in her hair, guiding her as gently as he can. Up and down, then right there into that tight part of her throat. She pushes against his hold slightly, so that she can swirl her tongue around him, moaning vibrations against his sensitive rod. He groans when he can faintly see in the dark that one of her hands is rubbing furiously between her own legs.

He reaches down and holy shit, she is soaking wet and so, so _warm_. In that moment, with alcohol and THC coursing through his body, his cock down her throat, and his fingers inside her hot, tight, sopping core, none of their history matters. All that matters is how she's pushing at the flesh behind his balls and the heat of mouth around his cock and the way she keeps sucking even after he spills down her throat.

"Wow," he breathes. She grins up at him and clumsily swigs what's left of the champagne.

He stands and pushes her towards the bed.

"Your turn," he says before dipping his head between her legs. As his tongue hits her clit, her back arches, pushing her pussy harder against his mouth.

Vaguely, he registers her moans. "Please please please. Don't stop."

He lazily explores the texture of her folds and the hardness of her small clit with his tongue. He delights in her wetness as he tunnels one digit inside of her, groaning in satisfaction at how her cunt squeezes around him.

"More, please." He loves how desperate she sounds.

Slowly, he puts two, then three fingers inside her, curling them up to that special spot, all the while sucking gently on her clit. Her moans increase in volume and her words become unintelligible.

He's fully hard again by the time he feels the signs of her burgeoning orgasm - her cunt throbbing around his fingers, her juices spilling onto his hands. He pulls away before she can fully climax, smirking at the whimper she makes in disappointment.

He stands and pushes her down. Then, he's on top of her, thrusting until he's fully sheathed by her dripping, clenching cunt.

"Wait… Stop. Condoms are… non…negotiable." He can tell she's trying to sound authoritative, but her words come out breathy and disjointed by his thrusts. With anyone else, he would have stopped immediately, but this is Granger beneath him, and he's not about to let rubber interfere with this stolen experience.

They are wizards after all, and he's sure she knows all the proper spells to cast in the afters. Instead, he spreads his fingers, still wet from her pussy, around her jaw and cheeks, cupping her face possessively. Easily, he shifts his weight on top of her and kisses her deeply, thrusting his tongue against hers with the same rhythm he's burying himself inside her below.

"Please… stop… we need to use… condom," she's saying against his mouth, but her arms are around him now, running her fingers across his back muscles.

He threads one hand through her now very tangled hair, and the other over her throat, groaning against the arch of her neck.

"Shut up," he says and to his surprise, she only moans in response. He kisses her right cheek, then her left, then down to her collarbone. With each kiss, he slips a small lick against her skin. She tastes deliciously of sweat and pussy and the very thought that this is _Granger_ bucking beneath him, squeezing his arse, wrapping her legs around him – he has to slow his thrusts to avoid cumming too early. He wants to savor this surreal pleasure with Hermione Granger.

"God," she breathes against his ear. "I can feel you getting even bigger. Ohhh -"

In the blackness, her dark blue form writhing beneath him is quite possibly the sexiest thing he's ever seen. He rises to his knees, pulling her legs around his hips so he has more force behind his thrusts. His eyes rove over the bounce of her breasts, the way her hands tightly fist the sheets, the tilt of her pelvis to draw him in deeper. He pounds her hard enough to leave bruises on both their bodies.

Her orgasm is loud and wet, almost painful as her channel throbs heavily around his cock. He stills and silently recites the properties of polyjuice potion to distract himself, but it's not enough to keep from spurting his release.

"Fuck," he breathes, half in frustration at his loss of control, half in holy shit, he's just come inside of Hermione Granger.

He stays above her long after their climaxes are over, content with the gentle pulsing of her core. She doesn't seem to mind. She traces her fingers lightly over the back of his neck and presses light kisses against his jaw.

Even soft, he manages to stay buried in her as he shifts to the side, turning her so they face each other on the still made bed. They kiss languorously. He feels her lips turn upwards against his, and then her hand between his legs massaging his balls.

When she rests her head against his chest, he cringes at how reverent he is of her right now. Being with her is nothing like being with anyone else. He can't bring himself to launch in his usual routine of pretty words to solicit fleeting adoration. He wouldn't mean it the right way, given that he's only ever hated her for her goodness. And he doesn't want her doe-eyed and sweet anyway. He wants the Granger he knows - the overachiever, the manipulator, the spine of steel.

"Are you this much of a slut for all of your Johns?"

He thrills in the way she stiffens beneath him, and her response certainly doesn't disappoint.

"Why? Want me to tell you you're special? That only you can make me cum like this?"

He growls and pulls out. "You really are the worst whore ever." He pushes her onto her back again, and plunges two fingers into her cunt.

"You… don't… seem … to … really… mean … that." Her words are haughty but his effect on her is unmistakable. She cums in a messy splash in less than thirty seconds.

He continues to drive his fingers inside of her, occasionally flicking her clit with this thumb.

"Go ahead," he says against her ear, when she cums again. "Tell me I'm special."

With some effort, she manages to pull his fingers from between her legs and rises to her knees to straddle him. She slowly drags his hand over her smooth, flat belly, then across her full, soft breasts, and finally to her lush, open mouth.

She sucks his index finger between her lips, with a flourish of her tongue.

"You – " Now, she's sucking his middle finger, all the way to the back of her throat. "Are. Very." She licks his palm decadently. "Special."

Merlin, somehow, he's rock hard again already.

"Maybe you're not such a bad whore after all."

She doesn't respond, though he can feel her body tensing. He likes that she's uncomfortable. It makes him feel more in control as he flips her around onto her knees and drives into her from behind.

From this position, she feels impossibly tight. Her face is pressed into the mattress, muffling her moans. He pulls her head back by her hair with one hand, and harshly pinches her nipples with his other.

Her words are barely intelligible, partly because she can't stop moaning, and partly because blood is pounding in his ears. She says something like, "Is that the best you can do?"

He drops his hold on her and she falls like a rag doll onto the mattress, still impaled on his cock. He grips her hips hard enough to leave marks, and he thinks with satisfaction how many healing charms she'll have to use to erase him from her body. The thought makes him thrust harder.

For good measure, he bites down on her shoulder and palms both her breasts roughly when he cums. He manages to register that she's there too, quivering tightly around his cock. He stays bent over her for long minutes, panting heavily from possibly the greatest orgasm of his life.

Eventually, he registers something hot and wet drip on to his arms, which are still wrapped tightly around her shaking body.

Tears?

Shit. He's made her cry.

He pulls away stiffly, disgusted with himself for losing control in this way, but she squeezes his arms to keep them around her.

"Sorry," she says quietly, her voice tinged with a sob.

He's flabbergasted. "Why are you sorry?"

"I mean –" She tries to speak, but she can't stop crying.

He holds her while she struggles to restrain her sniffles. "Shhh…" He says, in his best imitation of someone offering comfort to a tearful lover. "Don't apologize. I shouldn't have hurt you like that."

She only sobs harder, her petite body shaking in his embrace. Then, she's… laughing?

"What –"

"I mean …. I'm sorry…. You didn't hurt me…. I don't know why I was crying…" she manages to get out between giggles. "And now, I don't know why I… can't… stop… laughing."

He notices her flesh is now covered in goosebumps, so he moves the blankets around them so they're both under the plush, goose-down comforter.

"You must think I'm insane," she says, when her giggles are finally quieted.

He doesn't respond, instead opting to pull her close and kiss the top of her head. He feels infinitely weary from this night he knows he didn't deserve. From the endless adrenaline rush that was fucking Hermione Granger. And though the practical part of his brain is telling him to get up and get the fuck out of there, the rest of him sinks into the comfort of curling up around her. Of the kisses she peppers on his forearms. And of the vulnerability in her soft voice as he drifts away from consciousness.

"Somehow, you make me feel… more than I have in a long time."

He's sure it's just another line she uses to get bigger tips from clients, but sleep overtakes him before he can argue.

* * *

Draco is used to waking up from nights of drunken debauchery, but his body and cock have never been quite this sore. Nor has he ever been this… paralyzed? Startled, he realizes he's rigid, and not in a good way, from an expertly cast _Petrificus Totalus_ _._ He is also completely naked.

Before him, Hermione Granger is fully clothed, sitting in a chair she's pulled up beside the bed.

"About time you woke up, _Malfoy_." She spits his name like it's toxic.

Fuck.

* * *

**END OF CHAPTER 1**

AN: I haven't written anything in forever and would really appreciate feedback! Thank you, lovely readers! :)


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

From a young age, Draco came to understand friendships as exchanges of power, and he thrilled in the virtue of his own identity as the heir of the wealthiest and most politically powerful Pureblood line in Great Britain. His inner posse – Vincent, Greg, Pansy, and later, Blaise, who were also heirs of immense fortunes – viewed him as their leader. In return for his attentions, they provided him with unwavering support and admiration. This was how he understood the world to work.

As an eleven year old, he simply didn't _get_ Harry Potter's choice of Ronald Weasley's friendship over his own. Poor, pathetic, incompetent Weasley. And then that unbearably swotty mudblood, Granger. Potter is an idiot, he had thought. Chosen one, my arse.

But it had gotten under his skin. Over the years, as Draco reveled in his position of power within Slytherin house, he couldn't help but narrow his eyes at all the drama which starred Harry Potter and his two best friends. He couldn't stand how most of Hogwarts, faculty and students alike, fawned over the trio, constantly bending rules to fit their indiscretions. He scorned their stupidly ingenuous heroics.

He hated Potter and Weasley, because he found them to be largely undeserving of the attention and praise showered upon them. He hated Granger because, well, she was so very deserving of it all. Mudblood or not, she was intelligent and hard-working. And she was undeniably pretty, even when she was running her mouth.

Like the rest of the attendees of their fourth year winter ball, his breath had hitched at the sight of Granger in that dress, hair cascading in sleek curls around her bared shoulders, all light freckles and easy smiles and smooth skin. He had noticed the jealous glare in Pansy's eyes. He followed her gaze from Granger, who was twirling delightedly about the ballroom on Victor Krum's arm, to Ronald Weasley, who was slumped in a chair, looking miserable and heartbroken.

"She has nothing on you," he had murmured.

Pansy had sniffed and said, "Oh please, Draco, keep it in your pants."

The part of him that felt genuine affection for Pansy, that remembered how guileless she had when they were children, felt a little bad for her. Even back then, he understood then that her jealousy was unrelated to Granger's beauty or even that she was on the arm of a quidditch star. Rather, Pansy's envy was a sort of curiosity for what it was like to be sought out just because you were liked, to seek someone else out just because you liked them. Not because your parents told you to date the richest boy in school.

At the ball, Draco didn't acknowledge any of this to Pansy of course. He was mostly peeved that she had the gall to feel wistful at all when she was _his_ date. So instead, he tugged her into an alcove for some heavy snogging and wondered what it would be like to kiss Granger instead.

Well, he certainly found out last night, hadn't he?

He's immobile, cold, and naked, under Granger's scrutinizing gaze.

"The room has been soundproofed and warded and I've called the front desk to extend your reservation. No one will be coming by to check on you or save you if you cry out."

Draco tries his best to form a glare but the muscles around his eyes refuse to cooperate.

"I've also locked your wand away, so don't even think about trying anything."

He manages to roll his eyeballs upwards in exasperation.

"I'll have to un-petrificate you, because obviously, there are things I will need to interrogate you about before I decide what to do with you. I will let you get up and put clothes on, but if you try anything – anything at all – I will stun you so fast – "

She trails off, as it's obvious he cannot respond.

"Your clothes. I've uh – laid out your clothes beside you."

Ah, how very Granger of you, he thinks.

She holds up her wand and moves halfway across the room, well out of his view, before she releases him from the spell. He makes a show of sitting up gingerly and stretching out his cramped muscles. Merlin, he hates being on the receiving end of that blasted spell. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches her as he slowly pulls on the boxer briefs she had so eagerly tugged off of him last night.

The palpable anger that was there just moments earlier is now under wraps. She looks frail and tired, her dress rumpled and graceless. As if sensing his appraisal, she steadies her wand against him.

She's scared, he realizes. As she should be, since he's caught her working as a _whore_. And he's helped himself to her services. He _knows_ things about her now. Like how very wet her velvety cunt can get if touched the right way. How easily her nipples pucker. Their carnal acts aside, if she had been telling the truth last night, then he also knows something about her muggle parents being hidden away in Sydney. She probably thinks he's part of some Death Eater resurgence, sent to do recognizance on her family. He frowns at this.

He also sees something else in her. A certain shiftiness that makes her breath uneven and her stance unsteady – she feels shame, he realizes, and… lust? Fuck, he wants take her again, this time as himself, without any glamours. He pulls on his pants to hide his burgeoning arousal. He supposes that she knows something about him too – that he had thoroughly desired her.

He grins. "Granger… the only woman I've ever known to become _more_ uptight after a good screwing."

She looks at him coldly. There is nothing seductive about her now, the veneer of Lara thoroughly shed. "Why… how could you? With me? Last night?"

She trails off and averts her eyes to his bare feet. He immediately resents her for showing him this vulnerability. Fuck her for making him feel bad. He tucks his guilt aside.

"I believe you said something about being interested as long as I can pay? And I did. Rather handsomely, I think. Certainly the priciest whore I've ever - "

"Please don't," she says quietly. "Don't call me a whore, again."

He sits down on the edge of the bed and eyes her up and down. "What do you think I should call you then?"

She ignores this.

"I suppose we're at something of a stalemate, Malfoy."

He crosses his arms, wincing at their stiffness.

"You know some things about me. And I know your address, where you live with Blaise Zabini and Pansy Parkinson. I _thoroughly_ went through your phone when you were asleep. With one owl, the whereabouts of your location can be on the front page of tomorrow's Prophet."

Draco shrugs, but he knows she has him there. While Blaise would be pissed, he could easily move on to a new location. Pansy, on the other hand, would be put in quite a difficult situation with Trevor.

"How did you figure out it was me?"

"Your … hair. Some of it came off your head – "

He has a flashback of her fingers running through his hair, tugging at his strands as she moaned and arched her pelvis up so he could pound deeper inside of her.

"The stray hairs were such a peculiar shade of blonde… on a hunch, I cast a _Finite Incantatem_. The principle is in the subtext of the 7th law of transfiguration. Transfigured biological material will lose their magicked properties if - "

"I _know_ the 7th law of transfiguration, Granger," he sneers at her. Fucking Granger. Still swotty to the max even after spreading her legs for money. "How clever of you."

She ignores this quip. "I had initially thought you were here to spy on me, which –"

"Which would be surprising considering no one knows you're here?"

"Why would you say that?"

"I doubt Potty and Weasel would let you play escort."

"They know I'm in Sydney, but you're right in that they don't know about that part of things."

"Why _are_ you selling yourself like that, Granger? If it's money you need, couldn't your precious Potter have spared you a loan?"

She glares at him. "It's really none of your business how I earn cash, Malfoy. Not all of us are born with silver spoons in our mouths."

He wrinkles his nose to exaggerate his disgust. "Surely, there are less revolting ways for the brightest witch of our age to get paid."

She fumes at this. "You're such a hypocrite, Malfoy! You can't… You can't fuck me, against my will, and then – "

"You seemed pretty willing to me last night," he mutters.

"Well, I never would have if I'd known it was you!" Her voice is raised now and her chest heaves with anger.

He wants to press her, but instead, calculates whether he can _Accio_ his wand into his hand before whatever curse she throws at him takes full effect. Probably not.

"And… this," she sputters. "This was the worst thing you could do to me."

He scoffs. "Right. There you were, opening your legs for whatever sweaty idiot could throw a few bills your way, but me, spending all night providing you with pleasure… that was the worst thing I could do."

"There is NO one I'd be more _revolted_ by than you," she seethes.

His eyes narrow. "Is that right?"

Her wand hand trembles, but she lifts her chin and holds her voice steady. "You're nothing but a spineless, sneaky, sniveling, _weak_ little boy."

He takes a step towards her. "I think," he begins.

She takes a step back and tightens her grip on her wand. "Don't you dare come any closer, Malfoy, or so help me, I will make that _Sectumsempra_ Harry cast on you in sixth year look like child's play."

He laughs and takes another step closer. "I think you're full of shit, Granger."

"Stop!"

He launches himself at her.

" _Stupefy!_ " She's fast, but he readily ducks to the side and crashes his body into hers. Momentarily, she looks dazed. Before she can attempt another spell, he pins her wand hand above her head and wrenches the stick away from her. He tosses it aside, satisfied at the sound of wood clanking uselessly against the far wall.

He steels himself as her body tenses defensively beneath his. She attempts a punch at his face with her free hand, but he manages to catch it and pin her down fully.

Her expression turns feral and she bucks violently under him.

"Get _off_ me, Malfoy."

"Merlin, Granger. Stop, just stop moving."

"Then get off me!"

"You daft bint. Just… stop squirming! I'm not trying to hurt you."

She glares at him and he looks down at her, trying to keep his own face as expressionless as possible. They're both panting.

"You have always tried to hurt me," she says quietly.

"You know what I think, Granger?"

She turns her head away, as if to get as far away from him as possible.

"I think that you let me win. I think you want to be under me right now."

"Why the hell would you think that?"

"I've seen you in battle. You would never be so careless with an opponent." He feels himself starting to harden with her soft curves squirming beneath him.

"Well excuse me if I'm not my normal self after I've been tricked into sleeping with a slimy git who has bullied me nonstop over the last seven years."

He smirks at this. "And you loved every moment of it. The fucking that is. Who knows? Maybe you liked the bullying too. You seem to get off on playing rough." He pins both of her wrists with one hand above her head and uses the other to hitch one knee up over his shoulder.

She gasps at this, but doesn't resist. Her pupils dilate and her cheeks flush.

"And I think you want more…" He grinds his erection against her crotch, the fabric of his slacks creating friction against the small triangle of her thong.

Keeping a tight hold on her wrists, he runs his free hand down her body starting from her neck. He traces her collarbones and then palms her breasts over her wrinkled dress. Her nipples are swollen and rigid. She arches into his touch, which makes him smirk more.

"Such a good little slut for me, aren't you Granger?"

"Don't take it personally, Malfoy. I am a professional after all."

He laughs at this and continues. "I love the idea of you as a slag." He tweaks her nipples, and she inhales sharply in response.

"Who would have thought… the proper Gryffindor princess deep-throating cock. Merlin, I wish I'd known just how slutty your little cunt was underneath all those prim Hogwarts skirts." He reaches down and cups her mound. "You've soaked through your panties, you swot."

She whimpers as he pushes her thong aside and slides two fingers inside her. He thrills in the way her pussy hugs his digits.

When he releases his hold on her wrists, she wastes no time in reaching down and unzipping his fly. He wants to chuckle at her eagerness, but the relief of his erection springing free heightens and focuses his lust.

"Tell me what you want, Granger."

"You know what I want, you git." She's doing her best to glare, but her shallow breaths betray her desire.

He wants to make her beg, but can't help pressing against her warm, wet entrance. "Good enough." He easily tears off her flimsy underwear and pushes inside her roughly.

He's sore from their earlier couplings, but the pleasure of her pussy contracting around his rod overrides all discomforts. Her nails are raking over his back and she's angling to have more of him inside of her. He resists, keeping his strokes slow and shallow.

"Oh god, please." She pants heavily against his ears. He feels her clenching desperately over his ever retreating cock, impatient for release. Her eyes are closed and her lips are luscious and chapped from kissing. Her head is turned to the side, exposing the elegant curve of her throat. He resists running his mouth over the smooth skin of her neck.

"Look at me, Granger." He frames her face with his hands.

She opens her eyes, but keeps her head turned so that she's looking straight at his Dark Mark. He feels self-conscious, so he slams into her deeply once, as if to distract her from the ugly reminder of his former dark allegiance. The motion makes her back arch deliciously, and she turns her gaze to him.

Instead of begging him to fuck her harder, as he expects, she says, "You have to promise…You have to promise not to tell anyone that you've found me … and how you've found me out here."

He pushes into her even more insistently, and delights in the feeling of her abundant wetness dripping down the base of his cock. "Who would I tell?"

"Please, Malfoy." She reaches a hand up to his face and brushes his hair from his forehead. Her touch is gentle like a real lover's. So this is what it's like for Draco Malfoy to fuck Hermione Granger, he thinks.

"What do I get in return?"

"What do you want?"

"I want to know why you're here."

She reaches between them and smoothly fondles his balls. "I can't tell you that, Malfoy, but I can do this for you."

And amazingly, she begins rolling her hips beneath him, sheathing her slick tunnel around him, squeezing him decadently with her cunt.

"Please," she says, and it sounds like she's pleading for pleasure.

He blames it on weakened defenses. The old Draco Malfoy would have leveraged the hell out of this situation, but there's nothing he wants except to be left alone to party with his best friends. To hide in this paradise, to forget all the horrible shit that went down over the last two years, and to avoid all the horrible shit to come. And really, who the hell would believe an ex-death eater anyway? So he agrees easily.

"I won't tell," he whispers. She pulls his lips down to hers and runs her tongue against his.

"Fuck me, harder… please." She begs prettily. Some part of him thinks she's posturing every time she pleads, because the Granger he knows would be too proud to beg _him_ of all people for anything, but his nerves are frayed and itching for that burst of pleasure.

He pounds into her furiously. The carpet scratches uncomfortably against his hands and knees, but there, oh there, Merlin, she feels good. He frames her face with his forearms and forces her gaze to his.

"Come for me, Granger."

Her legs are wrapped tightly around his back, and she's matching his thrusts. Her moans are ragged as he slams into her harder than he's ever fucked anyone. Within minutes, he thinks she's cumming, but he's not sure because he's wrapped up in his own release. He collapses heavily onto her and allows himself to enjoy the pulsing of her pussy around his sensitive cock. When he moves to pull out of her, she keeps her legs wrapped around him.

"Wait," she says.

He's happy to oblige, but is startled when a hot, purple light envelops their joined bodies. The magic prickles his skin unpleasantly, like a scorching torch pressed against every inch of him.

He's panicking now, but she continues to cling her legs around him. "Hold still, Malfoy. Just a little longer." Her voice is trembling, and he knows she's in pain too.

He scrambles off her after the light dissipates. "What the _fuck_ was that, Granger?"

She looks slightly sheepish. Her legs are still splayed open, displaying her pink, glistening pussy. Like him, her skin is unblemished from the heat that had enveloped them moments earlier, but her bare legs are covered in bruises in the shape of his grip. Slowly, she pulls her legs together, sits up, and pulls her dress down.

"Remember, Marietta Edgecombe? She was a Ravenclaw the year above us."

"Not really," he snaps.

"Really? Well, I suppose you were quite busy that year. Letting Death Eaters into Hogwarts and all."

He rises and tucks his dick back inside his pants. Then, he summons both their wands easily. He rolls his eyes when she looks alarmed, but he tosses her wand to her and tucks his own into his waist.

"I don't want to fight, Granger. Just tell me what the fuck you just did to me."

"I _was_ ," she says impatiently, rising to face him. "Everyone who was in DA had to sign an oath of secrecy. I jinxed the parchment such that anyone who broke the oath would be… punished."

He chortles at this. "That was you? You're more vengeful than any woman I've ever met, Granger… except maybe Bellatrix."

She flinches at this.

He continues, "Edgecombe had those ugly scars on her forehead for the rest of the year."

"She still has them actually... I do feel a little bad. Well, I modified the jinx. Instead of the parchment, I charmed myself. And instead of signing, I made…. copulation the clinching action."

His lips slowly twist into a cold smile. "Fucking hell, Granger. You know the last asshole to give me a permanent scar…" He raises his left arm to prominently display his dark mark.

"Well, you won't get one if you keep your promise to not tell anyone," she says tartly. "Serves you right for tricking me into sleeping with you."

"Shit," he says. He finds his shirt and yanks it on, not caring that the buttons on his lapels scrape against his face. "What? You wanted to get even? You're a real piece of work, Granger. You think you have some magical, golden pussy?"

Her eyes flash with anger. "That," she bites out. "Has nothing to do with it."

"Why do you think I would _bother_ to get mixed up in your business?"

"Because you wasted no time in putting your dick inside me!"

"That doesn't make you special, Granger. I've lost count of how many lays I've had in the last two _weeks_ –"

"Gross."

"Says the whore!"

"You do not get to be self-righteous, here!"

He clenches his fists in anger. "This isn't Hogwarts, Granger. No one, least of all me, wants to get wrapped up in whatever idiotic shit you've gotten yourself into. Yeah, I wanted to screw you. Call it fulfilling a schoolboy fantasy. I was merely taking advantage of an opportunity, which you were offering to anyone who could pay."

He snatches up his sports coat and fumbles for the pouch of galleons charmed to look like a muggle wallet. With disdain, he shoves it into her hands.

"There," he says. "For today's performance. A thousand an hour, right?"

He thinks he might see tears in her eyes, but he's too angry to care. Too furious to question the logic of his own actions.

"You make me out to be some big, bad villain, Granger," he continues. "But fuck, _you're_ the ruthless one. In case you can't tell, you lunatic, I'm letting you know loud and clear. People won't like it when you cast sneaky spells on them against their will. Now, get the _fuck_ out of my hotel room."

He grabs her heels and purse in one hand and her arm in the other. Her skin is cold and covered in goosebumps beneath his grip. He releases her to open the door and throws her belongings out into the hallway. They thud anticlimactically against the carpeted floor. Then, he all but shoves her out.

He's breathing hard after he slams the door shut.

Merlin, she got under his skin.

All at once, he feels exhausted. For months now, with Pansy and Blaise, in their secret haven, he's felt… normal. He hasn't had to think too hard about anything that transgressed between himself and the likes of the Other side. About how _weak_ he had been, too afraid to do what he knew was right, and too self-loathing to continue to do Voldemort's bidding.

And then she shows up and well… guess he _is_ still the bad guy after all.

Shit. Fuck.

Maybe he shouldn't have thrown her out like that.

He sits down on the bed and runs his fingers through his tousled hair. His scalp feels greasy and his skin is covered in cold, dried sweat from their numerous couplings.

As he's about to apparate home, he spies a small piece of dark fabric, lying in contrast against the room's neutral carpet.

He hesitates, because he really did mean what he said. That he didn't want to get mixed up in whatever potentially dangerous, tragic thing for which Granger was secretly and desperately in need of galleons. He swears to himself with each step he takes towards her torn and soiled underwear.

Fuck. He shouldn't do this.

But he pockets it and apparates into his bedroom. He locks the door and casts a silencing charm.

He feels sickly and tired under the bright sunlight pouring in from the ocean view. He fishes out the torn scrap of lace and places it on his desk, along with a blank piece of parchment.

He takes a breath and focuses his energy. He hasn't done complicated magic in a long while, but the charm works. Ink appears on the parchment, forming a rudimentary map of Sydney. And it shows a red dot, labeled "H. Granger," about three miles from a black dot labeled, "You are here."

Draco glares down at the map. After a few moments, he crumples it up and tosses it in the waste bin. He wandlessly shuts the drapes and collapses into his bed for a long and hopefully dreamless sleep.

* * *

**END OF CHAPTER 2**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, lovelies! I really want to know what you think, so please leave me a comment if you have time. I welcome any and all criticisms for improvement!
> 
> xoxo
> 
> bourbonrain


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

He counts fourteen hours spent with Granger in that hotel room.

For weeks afterwards, flashes of their time together rudely overtake his consciousness. He'll be heading to the beach with Pansy and Blaise, or waxing his surfboard, or trying to order a drink at a bar. And he'll freeze mid-motion, thrust unexpectedly into memories of her body wrapped around his, her hot tears falling on his skin as she came apart in his arms, the hurt and anger in her eyes the next morning before she manipulated him into fucking her again.

Pansy and Blaise notice, but don't say anything. Not to his face anyway. As he gets up for a glass of water in the middle of the night, he overhears them talking about him in hushed tones.

"I'm worried, Blaise. It's like…"

"Like sixth year all over again?"

"Yeah."

"You don't think – "

"No. No, he would never get mixed up in the dark arts again. I mean, _we're_ still reeling from it all and we didn't have _him_ living in our goddamn house. Personally threatening the lives of our mum and dad unless we successfully kill our headmaster."

"Dark lord. Dumbledore. Blah blah. So what? What's he hiding then?"

"Maybe it's a girl?'

"You mean … you mean you think he _likes_ someone?"

"He hasn't been screwing everything that moves lately."

"Yeah, but why would he hide her from us?"

"Ugh, I don't know."

Draco tiptoes back to bed, feeling silly for sneaking around two of his closest friends, like some first-year hiding from Filch.

"Maybe it's a girl," Pansy had said. She couldn't possibly know how right she was.

* * *

The map tracking Granger is wrinkled from living in his pocket. It becomes a compulsion, whenever he's alone, to smooth out the piece of parchment and analyze her movements between muggle and wizarding Sydney.

In the month since their run-in, he's learned her habits. Most of the time, the map is empty, and he presumes she is in an untraceable location. Clever witch. But every day, between noon and one pm, ink spreads across the blank parchment and shows her to be in a small park near downtown muggle Sydney. Then, she either becomes untraceable again, or she crosses into wizarding Sydney and frequents a variety of bookstores and potion shops. Once a week, typically early on Wednesday afternoons, she spends about 45 minutes in a muggle chain grocery store not far from the park.

Usually, she sticks to the routine, her movements direct and purposeful. Three times over the last four weeks, he's seen her stop in a pub in the muggle world and stay for less than an hour. Two days ago, the map, which he had charmed to always center on Granger, shifted north into Kuringai national park. There, her name disappeared.

The map has been blank since then. No hour in the small park. No forays into the wizarding world. Nothing.

He's having lunch with Blaise, Pansy and Trevor on their terrace. His friends are laughing over some story Pansy is telling about meeting Trevor's parents. Draco is itching to go to his room and check the map again.

"Well, what do you think?" Blaise is speaking directly to him now.

"Think about what?"

"What is with you?" Pansy snaps. "Where is your mind these days?"

"Fuck off," he responds, without much conviction.

He catches the worried glance shared between his roommates. Trevor, avoiding eye contact, is meticulously cutting his meat into very small pieces.

Draco feels annoyed by their concern. Wordlessly, he shovels the rest of his food in his mouth.

"Thanks for lunch, Trev," he mumbles, before rising to leave.

"Draco," Pansy says softly. "Wait –"

"It's nothing," he says quickly, before she can pry. "A letter came from my mother a few days ago. I need to write her back."

This seems to placate his friends, because they let him leave without another word.

It's not a lie. He _does_ need to write his mother back. He's failed to respond to her last three owls.

He gets out a fresh piece of parchment and inks his favorite quill. The words don't come. What do you say to the person who loves you most in the world, when their choices have both condemned you and saved you? When you're too pissed off at your parents to feel guilty for abandoning them. When all the love your mother has for you feels heavy and wretched around your heart, because you're not sure if you can ever forgive or forget.

He sets his quill down and fishes out the map.

It's still blank.

He crumples it up and throws it into the rubbish bin. It's not like he _really_ cares what Granger's up to, he tells himself. Why should he? He _needs_ to forget about their encounter. Swallow it down and pretend it never happened.

He changes into a clean pair of swim trunks and convinces Blaise and Trevor to join him for an afternoon of surfing.

It feels good to gain speed against the current. To feel the force of the expansive ocean rolling beneath his board, and the chill of salty wind in his wet hair. For a few hours, he's free.

When he's back in his room alone, he fishes the parchment from the bin again.

Yup, still blank. Fuck.

* * *

Her name reappears a week later, like nothing had happened. She resumes her routine. Downtown park. Bookstores and potion shops. Grocery shopping.

He wants to share his sense of relief with someone, but there's no one to tell. No one who could possibly understand why he's been stalking Granger through a map he's enchanted using her knickers. Which are sitting in the bottom of his own underwear drawer. Still soiled and ripped from the things he did to her body.

He doesn't understand it himself.

* * *

He knows that it's probably a sign of insanity, but he does it anyway.

He magics his face into one very different from both his own, and that of "Drew," which Granger had seen. Then, he selects a casual muggle outfit – shorts and a polo, with loafers.

He checks his watch. 11:45 am. He knows he shouldn't go, but he can't stop himself. His wand is out, and he's apparating into the small park.

He tells himself repeatedly to go back to the flat and tear up that map and forget about her. Instead, he takes it out surreptitiously and waits for her name to appear. He sits down on a bench with a good view of the rest of the park. There aren't too many other people here. A young man walking a dog. An older couple having lunch on a nearby bench. A group of people who look like co-workers having a picnic on the grass.

He's in the shade of a Weeping Fig tree, one of many that populate the grassy landscape. Fallen fruit are scattered along the paved path encircling a small pond.

He checks his watch again. 11:47 am. His heart is beating in his ears now.

At 12 pm, the map is still blank. He should really get out of here now, he thinks. But he stays on the bench and pretends to look at his phone.

At 12:07 pm, her name appears. He raises his head slowly, putting on a pair of sunglasses, to better look around the park without seeming suspicious.

It's anticlimactic to see her, because he feels so _changed_ by their encounter at the hotel. By the weeks he's obsessively looked for her name on that fucking piece of parchment. And the week she had disappeared up north. He had… _fretted_ about her. Fuck me, he thinks. Because she – well, she looks exactly the same.

Hermione Granger, in the flesh, is sitting about thirty feet away from him with her head buried in a damn book. He tries to play Candy Crush on his phone, but does terribly, because he's glancing sideways at her every thirty seconds.

She looks up from her book frequently, but not at him. Rather, her attention is focused on the older couple, now done with the sandwiches and coffee that was their lunch. With interest, Draco observes them too. They had seemed pretty boring earlier, greying and frumpy. But then the woman laughs and turns in such a way that Draco sees all of her face.

 _What the fuck,_ he thinks. Because there's no mistaking it. She's the spitting image of Granger, except older. This is her _mother_ , he realizes. But Granger makes no moves to approach them. Instead, she looks down at her book and turns the page.

Draco's mind is racing.

Hermione Granger is estranged from her parents.

No. Hermione Granger is _stalking_ her parents.

At 12:50 pm, the couple rises and toss the plastic containers which held their salads into a trash can beside the bench Granger is sitting on. She looks up and smiles at them.

They give her a polite nod and then they're walking away.

The look on Granger's face breaks his heart a little, because it's clear to him now, that they have no recollection of who she is. And she looks crestfallen. Does she go through this every day? How long has she been doing this? Sitting nearby during their lunch hour, hoping they'll recognize her?

Draco doesn't get much more time to ruminate on this however, because Granger's risen from her bench and she's walking straight towards him.

She doesn't look remotely surprised when he drops the glamours from his face. He schools his expression into an easy grin.

"Hey, Granger," he drawls cooly when she stops in front of him, hands resting impatiently on her hips. She's wearing a white slip dress, which brings out the tan of her skin. Her cheeks are slightly pink from sitting in the sun.

"I was wondering if I'd see you again," she says.

"Miss me?"

"Just your galleons."

"You are really the least charming whore ever."

"Shut it, Malfoy. Clearly, you have nothing better to do than to track me around the muggle world –"

"What? No, I was just sitting in a park, Granger. Enjoying the nice day-"

"Oh, don't bullshit me. Come on, let's go get a coffee. I have a proposition for you."

"Oh? What's in it for me?"

She sits down next to him. Draco looks around. No one is paying attention to them, but if they were, he wonders, what do he and Granger look like together?

Like strangers? Like rivals? Like friends?

"Malfoy," she says his name softly. "I know you know, now. About my parents I mean. And I… I don't know how you found me here, but I'm glad you did. I'm running out of time –"

"The statute of permanence for memoriae summoveo is three years," he cuts her off. "When did you cast it?"

"A little over two and a half years ago."

"Not afraid of messing about with dark magic, are you?"

"I thought you of all people would understand having to do dark magic to protect one's family."

Draco grimaces. He hates being reminded of what he was forced to do. "I don't know how you think I can help - "

"I need gingko animo. A lot of it. It's the key ingredient to the potion I'm developing, but I haven't got it quite right yet. I'm close.. I know I am –"

"That stuff is highly dangerous, Granger. And illegal. And rare. And expensive. Shit, Is that why you were –"

"Yes, okay? Partly. I also needed a book, which was also rare and expensive. That night you saw me… it was the quickest way to get funds, short of committing highway robbery. And I was… I _am_ almost out of time."

She's blushing, and not prettily. Her entire face is hot and she's breathing hard, avoiding his gaze. There was a time when he would have reveled in her shame. But now, he mostly just feels sorry for her, though not enough to help her without something in return.

"What's in it for me?" he presses.

"I thought… I thought you'd want to … again."

"Merlin, Granger. You'd think after everything we did in that hotel room, you wouldn't be shy about saying the word 'Fuck' to me."

"I –"

"And no. I mean, yes, you will let me fuck you whenever and however I want –"

"In your dream–"

"But you will also lift that fucking curse you put on me."

"Absolutely not."

"Do you want my galleons or not?"

She stands abruptly, as if she's ready to storm away. She glares at him, but after a few moments, her eyes soften.

"I can't lift the spell. I don't know how to exactly, and I don't' have time to work on it, not while there's still hope for my parents. But yes, I want your galleons. And your help with brewing the potion. You were the best in our year –"

"Flattery will get you everywhere."

"Except for you know…me… and Harry, with Snape's book –"

"You are terrible at flattery."

"Malfoy." She holds her hand out to him. "Let's go talk somewhere more private."

The way she's looking at him, her eyes darkening like they did when he was inside of her, makes his cock harden rapidly in his shorts.

He registers that her hand is surprisingly cool against his own, before the swirling sensation of a portkey whisks them away from the park where Hermione Granger spends an hour each day watching her parents.

* * *

END OF CHAPTER 3

 **Author's note** : **Hello lovelies! I'm really sorry that this chapter took me so long to get out! I really wanted to work on it, but then I kept having to work on my actual job. Boo responsibilities. Anyway, please let me know your thoughts on the progression of the story!**

**Also, special thanks to ChenangoJones for doing some unofficial beta-ing for me. Somehow, I never really grasped the real spelling of Sectumsempra and Zabini, until you that is. Thank you!**

**xoxo,**

**bourbonrain**


	4. Chapter 4

**Warning: This chapter graphically depicts sex, which while consensual, is also violent and verbally abusive. It occurs in the last scene. If this could be a trigger for you, please skip it.**

* * *

He doesn't need to look at the map to know that they've reached an unplottable location.

The ceiling above is enchanted, not unlike that of the Great Hall at Hogwarts, to replicate the ambient sky.

"I needed the artificial sky for things to not feel as claustrophobic," she says when she sees him looking up. "And according to my arithmancy calculations, the potions need light…"

He doesn't respond, frowning as he looks around. The portkey has deposited them into a glass cube, about 12 feet long on each side, placed in the center of a large, windowless warehouse. All around them, through the glass, are cauldrons. Tens, maybe over a hundred of them, arranged in neat rows.

Inside the cube is a desk, cluttered with papers, books, and a laptop. Along the inside perimeter of three of the glass walls are more books, arranged in half-hazard, waist-high stacks. He can sense dark magic wafting off at least half of them. It sets his stomach on edge.

Along the last wall is an unmade twin bed. A cot really. At the center of the cube's floor, a trap door leads to Merlin knows what other insanity below.

It _hurts_ to be here. Because it feels like he's in sixth year again, alone around piles of dark texts, poring through them for spells and curses. Each time he failed, some masked Death Eater would torture him with hours of _Cruciatus_ until he wet himself and cried for forgiveness and begged to try again because this time, this next time, he'd do better. And he'd come up with some other half-hazard plan and fail again. And again. Until he didn't. It turned out that not failing is what broke him in the end.

"What the fuck, Granger…"

"I know it looks a little mad scientist –"

"It's mad something."

"But it's the most efficient way to optimize all the parameters."

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

"I –"

"Why did you bring me here?"

"I told you. I need your help."

"Did you just kidnap me?"

"Jesus, of course not, Malfoy!"

"Where did you get all of those books?"

"What do you think the money is for, you dolt."

"Get me out of here."

"You said you'd help!"

He pulls out his wand to apparate, which seems to work at first, but whatever wards she's cast around her sanctuary slams him back into the peculiar glass room. He topples backwards and lands awkwardly on his bum, bumping his shoulder against the metal rail of the cot.

"Fuck!"

"Are you okay?" She's bent over him in concern. He ignores her extended hand.

"If you don't get me the fuck out of here right now–"

"Please, I just want to talk –"

"Fine, we can talk. Just not here, you lunatic. Get me out of this creepy… dark magic …prison you've built for yourself."

"How are you possibly going to help me if you can't be in my work space?"

He takes a deep breath and looks up, focusing on clouds in the false sky. "Take us to the bar, where we met last time."

"It's a bit early for heavy cocktails, Malfoy."

"You want my help? Then I need a stiff drink."

"But we can't _talk_ there."

"Granger!"

"Ugh, fine."

* * *

The second portkey trip takes them back to the park.

As soon as he's steady on his feet, he apparates away, back to the seaside flat, into the safety of his room. Before he's swept into the alternate space of apparition travel, he sees her shocked face. Serves her right for thinking she could rely on _him_ of all people.

He paces his room. He knows he's been a coward yet again, and immediately resents himself for it.

But it was too much. Seeing her again. Wanting her again. Observing her in the context of some desperate quest to what? Recover her parents' memories? They looked perfectly happy without her to him.

He runs his hand through his hair in frustration. Bollocks.

He's at once relieved to be away from her, and wistful for her presence. After weeks, _weeks,_ with the map… What had he been doing? Had he been _pining_ after Granger? Was this all so he could fuck her again?

And there she had been, sitting beside him, eyes hooded with desire. Then her hand was in his. She had taken him to what was effectively her bedroom. With just one move, he could have brushed those thin, white straps off her shoulder, and she would have been bared to him once more.

But, there were so very many cauldrons. Even if each one had just a pinch of ginko animo… He shudders. And the palpable hum of dark magic from all those texts she's been sleeping amongst. It's a miracle she hasn't lost her mind. Or maybe she has.

He doesn't want to go back. He _doesn't_. But he can't bring himself to leave her there alone. Reluctantly, he raises his wand and apparates back to the park.

* * *

She's still standing where he had abandoned her. The look on her face is pure relief. Some part of him feels warmed to be so visibly needed by war hero, Hermione Granger. It's a small part. Barely there at all, he tells himself.

"I just needed a minute," he says lamely.

She doesn't say anything at first. Her eyes fall to the ground and she's wringing her hands. When she speaks, there's a tremble to her voice, but he knows how good of an actress she can be, so he hardens his resolve to be skeptical.

"I'm sorry. I guess I've gotten used to it. The laboratory, I mean. Harry and Ron – they were taken aback their first time too."

"Where are they? Why aren't they helping you?"

She looks up at him, lips pursed. "I'm starving. Can we get lunch? And I think I could go for that drink."

* * *

During the daytime, the hotel bar in which they had so fatefully met opens onto a poolside patio.

Draco has a few words with the head waiter and hands over his credit card. Fifteen minutes later, they're seated in a cabana, sipping mojitos. Wait staff come by with their first course, crab and avocado salad.

They eat in silence. It's not until they're halfway done with their main course of lamb burgers that she speaks.

"Am I on a date with Draco Malfoy?" Her mood has visibly improved and her tone has a teasing quality to it. It annoys him.

"This isn't a date," he says, spearing a piece of tomato violently.

"Feels like a date."

"Start talking, Granger. Memoriae summoveo. Go."

Her mouth is full, and she seems to chew ever so slowly. After she swallows, she takes another huge bite.

He glares at her.

"Aw, don't be like that, Dray-co."

It's like she's Lara again. Umbridge sweet and low tide shallow.

She gives him a grin, which he doesn't return.

Sighing, she sets down the rest of her burger.

"It was when those articles came out about Susan Bones' family. I realized Voldemort could potentially target my mum and dad. I mean, he _was_ , wasn't he?"

"I wouldn't know," he says curtly.

"I mean, weren't you-"

"Not. Yet."

"Right," she takes a gulp of her drink. "I didn't mean to imply that-"

"Yes, you did."

"Right." She lets out a high-pitched nervous laugh. "I guess I did. Anyway, maybe this will be easier if we have something stronger. Straight whiskey, perhaps?"

"This isn't a fucking date, mudblood."

Right away, he regrets using the slur. He's been so careful, since the war, to avoid it. He hates the word, along with all the other constructs of prejudice the Dark Lord had used to manipulate his followers for power. But in this moment, he had really wanted to just take her down a notch. Or ten.

He expects the doe eyes and tears that the term had elicited back at Hogwarts. Instead, her gaze only narrows for a split second.

"You know how I knew it was you?"

"What?"

"In the park. How did I know it was you?"

"Here we go again. Can we not do another diatribe about the seventh footnote of whatever principle clause –"

"It was your face."

"But that's what I changed."

She shakes her head. "It doesn't matter. It's … how you hold yourself. There! That!" She's pointing at him eagerly, almost poking his nose. "That grimace is so you."

"You knew it was me because of my _grimace_?"

"And other things – like that! The way your eyebrows shoot up. Most of the time, you have a very honest face. Except – there."

"Stop waving your finger at my face. You're going to jab my eyes out."

"There," she continues. "You sometimes put on this mask and it…"

"It what?"

"It reminds me of sixth year. When you had something to hide. And you did it really well."

"'I'm flattered you've conducted such a thorough analysis of my face."

"And that's how I know that you _do_ feel bad about calling me a mudblood just now. Maybe about all those times you called me a mudblood. Even if you're too much of a wimp to apologize."

Draco scowls and waves the waiter over.

"Two whiskeys neat," he says. "Blue Label."

"Actually, can I have mine on the rocks?"

Draco scowls again. "Pussy," he mutters, after the waiter is out of earshot.

"You say that like it's an insult. Anyway, so Susan Bones. My parents. Right. So I knew I needed to do _something_. I mean the parents of Harry Potter's muggleborn sidekick? Definitely prime Death Eater targets, right?"

"Like I said, I wouldn't know."

"At first, I thought maybe it was enough to just send them into hiding. But Susan's family _were_ in hiding, and it still wasn't enough. And I mean… I know my parents. They would worry and try to get in touch and that'd be the end of them, you know? I realized that I needed to truly sever ties with them. And… I know it's not what they would have wanted. I mean… I think they would rather have died _for_ me rather than _without_ me. I wanted them to be safe, and to have some semblance of happiness and peace, and the only way for that to happen was to erase myself from their minds. But that gets tricky, because of course, then there were all the other people in their lives who knew they had a daughter… so I needed to erase myself from their _lives_. A simple _Obliviate_ wouldn't do. So after a lot of research and deliberation –"

"You chose to do the darkest pieces of iterative memory modification magic ever developed. How fucking noble of you."

"Fuck you, asshole," she snaps. "Like you -"

"Like I don't understand what it's like to have my parents in mortal danger?"

They sit in silence for a while. She glowers at him, as he takes aggressive bites of his burger.

"You know why I slept with you that night?"

He swallows his food and takes a large drink of water before replying. "Because you're prostituting yourself to buy large quantities of an extremely potent soul-altering substance, which you use in a highly illegal secret potions laboratory. All to fix your blunders with dark magic."

She glares at him for a few moments before twisting her lips into a wry smile. "Okay, yes… But also, because you reminded me of you."

"Fuck you, Granger."

"No, I'm serious. I mean, I didn't know it was you. But you reminded me of you. The way you looked down on me. How snarky and mean you were. It felt like–"

"These don't seem like good reasons to fuck someone."

"It felt exactly like what I deserved."

Their whiskeys arrive then. Draco takes a long, slow sip of his.

"Why are you telling me this?"

"You're the one who asked about memoriae summoveo."

"No, all the stuff about why you fucked me. You know what? Never mind. I told you I didn't want to get mixed up in your shit –"

"Then why did you come find me?"

"I _told_ you, I just happened to be in the park."

"That is utter nonsense. Statistically speaking, the chances of-"

"Oh, alright, you swot. Maybe I wanted to screw you again, but all this other crap–"

"And that's why I told you. About feeling like I deserved it...It felt like you were punishing me that night. I mean," she blushes. "That is, after the first time. And… I guess I just wanted you to know that I was okay with it." She lets out a shaky breath. "More than okay with it."

The moment reminds him of a dream he used to have about chasing the snitch. In the dream, he knows a devastating crash is coming, but he speeds up anyway, the sharp metal of the fluttering golden orb just within his reach.

He watches her fidget in her seat, twisting her cloth napkin into a rope. Nervously, she lifts her glass to sip, but her drink is already empty.

He _knows_ nothing good can come of this.

Fuck it. He's already come this far.

He downs the rest of his whiskey. Then, he's standing and dragging her out of her chair. She lets out a small gasp, but quickly quells it by pressing her lips together. Those fucking lips. He grips the back of her neck, tightly enough to leave finger-shaped bruises.

"Time to go upstairs," he says.

* * *

He manages to wait until they're in the suite before he shoves her against the wall, and pushes his fingers beneath the lace of her panties.

"I knew it," he says against her ear. "I knew you'd be fucking _drenched._ "

She flinches away from him when he roughly inserts two fingers into her pussy. Merlin, she so _hot_ and tight. He wonders how many men she's been with since him. All those quick stops at local pubs he'd seen on the map.

"Fucking whore," he sneers, and feels her tunnel clench around his fingers at his words. "You're loving this, you stupid cunt."

"Don't call me a whore, and don't call me stupid, asshole."

"Shut up. I'm sick of you running your mouth."

He's fucking her hard with his fingers now, thumbing her clit, watching the graceful curve of her neck as she throws her head back and moans. Fuck, he wants her. She evidently feels the same way, because she's fumbling with the zipper of his shorts.

"God, don't make me wait, Malfoy. Please."

She practically tries to mount him when his cock springs free.

"No," he snaps, shoving her away. "You don't deserve to have my dick in your sloppy cunt."

She looks genuinely startled, falling back onto the carpeted floor. Legs spread, mouth gaped open, lips swollen. What a pretty picture she makes, he thinks. He fists her hair and drags her up to her knees so she's eye level with his stiff member.

"You know what to do, whore."

Her nostrils flare as she glares up at him. "Make me."

He takes his other hand and grabs her jaw, hard enough to force her mouth open.

She makes whimpering noises in protest, but he slams his rod into the back of her mouth anyway. When he sees tears come to her eyes, he grips her hair harder and pushes himself deeper down her throat.

"Fucking mudblood," he pants. "Thinking you can use me."

Streaks of tears and snot run down her face. Some part of him revels in how _dirty_ pristine Granger looks on her knees, choking on his erection.

He loosens his grip on her when he comes. To his surprise, she reaches up and cups his balls and almost lovingly hollows her mouth around his member until he finishes spilling down her throat.

"What a professional," he jeers, pulling away and tucking himself back into his shorts.

She stands up, smoothing out her dress, as if to reclaim some dignity.

"I told you _not_ to call me a whore," she snaps.

"Ball's in my court, sweetheart. I can call you whatever I want to."

"Well, I prefer sweetheart."

"Whores usually do."

She slaps him. He's taken aback, just like the last time she hit him, back in fourth year. But he's not that scared little boy anymore.

"Do you have a death wish?" he snarls.

She moves to strike him again, but he catches her wrist easily this time. He smirks when she winces in pain at his grip.

"Take off your dress and knickers. Then, bend over the bed."

"Fuck you, Malfoy."

"That's the idea, sweetheart."

"I sucked you off. Now you eat me out. It's only fair." Her voice takes on the sing-songy tone reminiscent of Lara. He _hates_ it.

"You seem to think we're equals here."

"Well, obviously not. I always had better marks than you in school."

He wrenches her to him by her arm. Her slight frame falls against his clumsily. He grips the back of her neck with one hand, and her throat with his other, slowly running his palm down past her collarbones to the valley between her breasts.

"I said to take off your fucking clothes, whore." He yanks at the front of her dress. The straps break, but not before leaving angry red marks on her shoulders.

Her breasts are perfect swells of flesh, culminating in hard, pink nipples. He takes one into his mouth and tugs at the other until she's whimpering and he's hard again.

"Take off your knickers."

She nods docilely and moves to tug them off. He looks down and sees the small scrap of fabric streaking her juices against her thighs on its path to the floor. Fuck. He needs to have her. Now.

He pushes her onto the bed ass up, grips her hips, and enters her. Merlin, this feeling is everything. Being inside Hermione Granger is the ultimate high he remembers it was. The way her quim hugs his cock and throbs around him in perfect unison with his thrusts. The way she looks back at him, like she's torn between wanting to come and wanting to tell him off.

With a growl, he pulls out and flips her onto her back before shoving her further onto the bed and mounting her. Her hands are in his hair, pulling his lips down to hers.

"Please," she's murmuring against his mouth. "Please, I need you inside me."

He pushes her into the bed by her throat and looks down at her coldly. She's beautiful when she begs.

"You don't get to make any demands here."

"Please, Malfoy… I… ahh!"

He slams back inside of her. Keeping his hold on her throat, he thrusts into her with long, deep strokes.

Her face is flushed and desperate. "God, I'm almost there. Please, oh my god, please."

And then he feels it, that tightening of her cunt around him, the tensing of her whole body as she finds her release. He holds himself deep inside of her and enjoys the pulsing of her pussy on his cock.

When she finally goes limp beneath him, he starts moving again, rapidly gaining speed as he drives into her. She's moaning unintelligibly. He tightens his grip on her neck, and fucks her harder.

When he finally comes, she's a flushed and whimpering mess, her pussy throbbing around his cock as her body tenses beneath him.

He kisses her then, and feels the smear of tears on her face. He looks at her carefully, as he pulls away. Her lips are turned gently upwards into an almost smile. She looks sated and exhausted, not unlike other women after he's fucked them. But she's not just some other woman. This is Granger. A girl who was once his enemy. Who defied the logic of pureblood supremacy. Who helped save him and Goyle in the room of requirement, even after Crabbe tried to kill her and her friends. Who has let him fuck her harder and more roughly than any woman has before.

He flops onto his back and stares at the ceiling.

"You're doing it again," she says softly.

"Doing what?"

"Wearing your mask."

* * *

END OF CHAPTER 4

**Author's note: Hello, lovely readers! I've gotten some feedback about how this last scene is a little too "rape-y," but it fits into how I see their interaction at this stage in the story line. If you have any thoughts on the matter (or anything else), I'd really appreciate your feedback!**

**xoxo,**

**bourbonrain**


	5. Chapter 5

* * *

They lay nude, side by side, without touching. If she were a different woman, or if he were less sober, he wouldn't hesitate to pull her close. But he can't bring himself to make the move. As he comes down from the high of their coupling, he feels all too aware that his touch on her skin isn't enough to bridge the space between them.

He isn't sure what to say, and apparently, she doesn't either.

Silence continues.

Part of him hates that she's let him have her like this. Rough sex with anyone else would be a form of play. With her, all their harsh words and slaps and thrusts were intertwined with too much real resentment. Just another way to show the worst version of himself.

He wishes he hadn't followed her to the park. Hadn't tried to fuck her again. Hadn't cum so hard when he succeeded.

After a while, she sits up and swings her legs over the side of the bed. He admires the hourglass form of her back. For a moment, he thinks she might leave, but she makes no further move to rise. He realizes that she's probably waiting for him to pay her. Fuck that. She should pay him for that performance.

He's surprised at the casualness of her tone when she finally speaks.

"What would you be doing right now if you weren't here with me?"

He drags himself out of the darkness of his thoughts. "Probably surfing."

"You surf?"

"I just said I did, didn't I?"

She turns to him wearily. "Can you try to be nice for a few minutes, Malfoy?"

"Is that all the time I have left on the clock?"

"Yes," she says coldly, reaching for her bra. "I have things to do."

"Ah, yes. Your large-scale optimization experiment with dark magic."

"Are you going to help me?" She's donned her knickers now and is moving around the room looking for her clothes.

He doesn't respond. He props himself up against the headboard and watches her summon her wand to repair the broken straps of her dress. He doesn't want her to go, he realizes.

"No kiss goodbye?" He keep his tone cocky and light.

She looks at him quizzically, as if she can't tell if he's joking. "I'm running late as it is."

"Can-" he hesitates. "Will you come back after? I'll have your payment in galleons then."

"We can just use credit card again."

"I don't have it on me. Left it downstairs in the restaurant."

She rolls her eyes. "I suppose I should have made you pay at the beginning. They say it's the first rule of escorting."

"Who says?"

She shrugs and twirls her wand impatiently. "Whatever, Malfoy. Look, seeing you unexpectedly today… For some crazy reason, I thought you wanted…"

She trails off and shakes her head. "Anyway, I was wrong. I can't really understand it, but you appear to have this morbid curiosity about how messed up my life is. Well congratulations, you've had the mudblood on her knees."

"Granger…"

"I really must go." She raises her wand to apparate. "Guess you got a freebie."

He frowns and rouses himself from the bed, managing to catch her hand before she cast the spell.

"Wait -"

"I really do have to go," she reiterates. "There's an important scheduled –"

"Just… come back after. We haven't finished discussing the terms. How long will you be?"

"A few hours. Less if you came and helped me."

"I can't go back there." He lets go of her. "I just… can't. Maybe some other time."

She holds his gaze for a few moments, before her eyes soften. "Alright," she says. "I can come back here in a few hours."

"We can have a late dinner. Maybe order room service."

"Right," she says. And then she's gone with a swish of her wand.

After she leaves, he showers and dresses quickly. He has only half an hour before Gringott's Sydney branch closes.

* * *

After the bank, he returns to the flat.

Blaise is drinking rosé on the deck with a woman Draco doesn't recognize. Pansy and Trevor are nowhere to be seen.

He goes to his room and finds another owl from his mother sitting on his desk. To his surprise, it's joined by a letter from his father. The scroll from Narcissa reads like her previous communications, pleasantly detailing trite details of aristocratic life.

_Dearest,_

_Your father and I hope you're having a lovely time with your friends. Please send them our regards. We took a small holiday to Scotland, for just a few days. We stayed with Terry and Lydia McMasterson. You remember them, don't you? We often used to vacation at their castle when you were a boy. Terry's office at the Scottish ministry is looking for an intern. He says the position is yours if you're interested. Your father thinks you should take the position, though of course, I would rather you come home to England instead. The manor isn't the same without you._

_By the way, have you reached out to the Australian Greengrasses as I suggested in my last letter? Eugenia Greengrass says her husband's cousins throw very lovely summer soirees. I'm sure they would welcome you, Pansy, and Blaise. Would you like me to arrange for invitations? They have a son a few years older than you, who is evidently looking for a wife. Perhaps, you could introduce him to Pansy. Unless of course, you and she have rekindled your romance._

_Please write back to me, my darling. I know you can take care of yourself, but a mother always worries._

_Love,_

_Mother_

The letter from his father is shorter.

_Draco,_

_Don't be a shit. Write to your mother_.

_\- LM_

Draco folds both pieces of parchment and lays them on top of the other unanswered letters. He doesn't know how to respond, how to participate in the delusion that everything's just dandy. As if he hadn't been cornered into acting as assassin and prison guard at the Dark Lord's whim. As if _she_ hadn't been there in his home, sobbing from the Cruciatus curse, trapped beneath Bellatrix as the dark witch carved those letters into her flesh.

As if he wasn't still the villain in her story. He fingers the pouch from Gringott's in his pocket, resting next to the map he'd used to track Granger.

He goes to the kitchen and pours himself a glass of firewhisky and downs it in a single gulp. Scowling, he goes back to his room and pulls out fresh parchment.

_Dear Mother and Father,_

_Glad you are both doing well. I am doing well too._

_Your son,_

_Draco_

It's better than nothing, he thinks.

Afterwards, he joins Blaise and new girl on their stroll to the beach. He doesn't mind being third wheel, content to sit on the sand, watching them frolic in the waves.

The salty breeze feels good, cool and airy against the heaviness in his chest.

* * *

Granger doesn't come back to the hotel until almost midnight. She shows up in four-inch stilettos. It makes his dick harden instantly. She's changed into a dark green shift dress, which shows off her cleavage when she leans forward. Her hair is sleeked back into a bun, and her lips are painted cherry red. She looks beautiful in a severe way. Every bit the call girl she was that first night.

"Here," he thrusts the velvet satchel into her hands before she can say anything.

She takes the bag and weighs it skeptically in her palm. "Feels light."

"Open it."

She tugs open the drawstrings and pulls out a key. "What's this?"

"I opened a vault for you at Gringott's. If it's not enough, I can deposit more."

"How much is in there now?" Her tone is suspicious.

"Three hundred-thousand galleons. There's a receipt in the pouch for proof."

She whistles. "You must really like my pussy."

The air in the room is stifling, so he pulls open the sliding doors leading to the suite's balcony. She follows him outside into the chilly night air.

"The amount is negligible to me," he says finally, as they both look out into the moonless, starless sky.

"You start bank accounts for all your mistresses?"

"No. And you're not my mistress."

"Your whore?"

"I thought you didn't like that word."

"Just because I don't like it doesn't make it not true."

"No, Granger. You're not my anything."

She rubs the key with the pad of her fingers. "I don't understand."

"The vault is yours to use as you need. You don't have to fuck me for it."

"I don't… understand," she says slowly.

"It's… restitution."

"For being mean to me in school?"

"For _that_." He points at the jagged letters carved into her flesh.

She frowns and shifts her arm behind her back. "You didn't do that to me."

"I – " He falls silent, unable meet her gaze. "Take the money. Don't take it. I don't fucking care. Are we done here?"

He flinches when she reaches for him, though her fingers barely graze his cheek. Sighing, she drops her hand and strides back into the room.

He watches as she picks up the phone receiver.

"What are you doing?"

"You promised me dinner."

* * *

He leans against the rail of the terrace and watches her speak to the concierge. She's perched on the edge of the bed, playing with the phone cord. Briefly, he imagines himself shoving her on to her back and pressing inside of her.

He pushes the image out of his mind and fishes his wand out. They could part ways if he left now. He'd rip up the map and go back to chasing highs and random women with Blaise, until she faded back into the past. Now that she has ample funds, she'd forget him too. This is the end, he tells himself. This is enough.

She smiles at him after she sets the phone down, the whites of her teeth bright against the red of her lips.

He keeps his face blank, his wand still tightly gripped at his side.

"I got some interesting results this afternoon," she says, when she joins him back on the terrace.

"Oh?" Something about her tone makes him relax his posture.

"Some things are becoming quite clear." She's speaking rapidly, the way she did back at Hogwarts when she was excited about an idea in class. "A few weeks ago, I noticed that mugwort root was inhibiting the activity of the ginko animo, so I tested a few potential substitutes. Interestingly, crushed marigold infused with poplar bark really enhanced the essence crystallization properties of ginko."

"But you may run into problems with poplar's analgesic properties," he interrupts.

"That's what I thought too, at first," she says animatedly. "But actually, I think its analgesic qualities are essential to its amplification ability for this particular spell."

"How are you measuring the –" He stops himself. "Never mind. I'm sure it's nothing you haven't thought of."

"No, go on, please."

* * *

They pause their conversation when room service arrives.

She's ordered pasta for herself and a steak for him, with a shared side of roasted heirloom tomatoes. She chats cheerfully with the wait staff, a muggle man and woman, as they set the table and pour the wine.

"Darling, do you mind?" She's speaking to him now.

He fishes some bills out of his wallet and she tips them.

She continues her progress report as they sit down to eat.

He lets her ramble on. Yes, she's a swot, but he can admit that the breadth and thoroughness of her experiments are impressive, even for her.

"Look, I know what you're doing," he says, after they polish off their plates.

"What's that?"

"You're trying to trick me into … I don't know. Being your _brewing partner_ or something. There's no way I'm doing that. If you really need an extra set of hands, I can send a house elf your way."

"I-"

"And before you argue, I still remember your little quest to free all the house elves, and we can just agree to disagree about that."

"What I was _going_ to say," she says, annoyed to have been cut off. "Is that house elves have no formal education in potions. They won't know if something is the right color or consistency, or proper techniques for preparing materials. I meant what I said before. That you're quite good at the subject and I could use your expertise."

"Is that why Potter and Weasley aren't here? No NEWTs in advanced potions?"

"Something like that."

"Come on, Granger. What gives? Why aren't they helping you? I thought the three of you were _best friends_."

"We are."

"Then –"

"Harry has helped me as much as I'd let him," she says carefully.

"What about –"

"Do you care for desert?"

He narrows his eyes. "No. Stop dodging the question."

"Are you sure?" She rises out of her chair and makes her way to his side of the table.

His mouth goes dry as she takes his hand and places it on the base of her neck. It takes all of his self-control to not flex his fingers over her flesh.

"I told you, the money is yours," he says gruffly. "You don't have to fuck me for it."

"You don't want me anymore?"

"For Merlin's sake."

"Come on," she teases. "You were hot for me this afternoon."

"I made you cry this afternoon."

She moves to settle herself in his lap. He steels himself against her onslaught, refusing to engage.

"Malfoy," she says seriously, grabbing his face with both hands and turning his gaze to hers. "I've never come so hard in my life. I'm sure you know I liked it."

He's certain she can feel his erection pressing into her bum. Fuck, she's squirming on top of it. On purpose. Yes, definitely on purpose. Slag.

"Please," she whispers. "This... this grounds me."

Her words click. She's just using him after all. It makes him angry and sad in a way he doesn't understand. This, he acknowledges, is apparently his default state when it comes to her. Firmly, he slides his palm up her thigh.

"You fucking slut," he mutters, when he reaches the hot, wet center between her legs. "Is your cunt always so needy?"

"Mmm…" She's nimbly working her way through the buttons of his dress shirt. Then she's kissing his chest, then his neck, all the while riding his fingers.

He growls when she nips at his throat, withdrawing his digits despite her protests. He lifts her in his arms and carries her inside. As soon as he deposits her on the bed, she's fumbling with his belt and he's helping her out of her dress.

Pushing inside of her still feels surreal.

"Fuck," she's murmurs against his ear. "I love being stretched open by you." It makes him want to kiss her, but he doesn't.

After a few shallow thrusts, he pulls out and rises up off the bed. He yanks her legs with him so that she's positioned at the edge of the mattress. Then he pushes her knees into her chest, so that her cunt is presented wantonly for him. He sinks inside of her to the hilt. She wails in response.

"Is this what you wanted?" he pants.

"Yes … yess," she manages to bite out.

"Tell me," he commands.

She moans.

She feels amazing sheathed around him. He quickens his pace, slamming into her as if she's nothing but pussy for his cock.

"Tell me what you want, slag."

"This! I want this! I want you to fill me. Fuck. Yes. Like that. Ohhhh!" He feels her wetness gush around him, dripping from where their bodies join. He continues to thrust despite her orgasm, too far along his own trajectory to pause.

"You _like_ being called a whore, huh?" he sneers against her ear.

He feels her pussy throb at his words. "Shit," she gasps.

He settles into a new, faster rhythm.

"Answer me."

"Only... only by you," she says weakly.

"Fuck." And then he's emptying inside of her.

Spent, he releases her legs, and she unfolds them around his waist as he collapses on top of her. After he regains his composure, he pulls out and surveys the woman beneath him. She's gorgeous and flushed and messy in the most delicious way. Brightest witch of her age. Sexiest too, maybe.

Soon, they're again laying nude side by side. This time, he threads his fingers with hers. She doesn't pull away.

It makes him feel like less of an asshole.

"Next round," she says. "I want to be on top."

* * *

**END OF CHAPTER 5**

**Author's note: Hello lovely readers! Unfortunately, it will be a little while before I have time to finish the next chapter, so the daily updates have come to an end... As always, feedback would be very much appreciated!** **Is it too much smut?** **What do you think about how their relationship is evolving?**  
  
xoxo,

**bourbonrain**


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's note: Hello, lovelies! First off, for return readers, I am so sorry for this long wait between updates. Part of the delay was that I wasn't totally happy with some of the earlier chapters I already posted. I finally got around to re-writing a couple scenes, with edits that tweaked the emotional dynamics a little. It might be worth going back and re-reading if you have the time. xoxo**

* * *

The silence and stillness of the room come as a slap when he wakes up alone the next morning.

He finds a note on the nightstand, and beside it, the key to the vault he'd made in her name.

" _This isn't your score to settle_."

No signature. No goodbye. No see you later. Just a heaviness in his chest he isn't sure he should feel.

He crumples up the scrap of paper and gets dressed, once again folding away the secret they've forced upon each other.

* * *

It's midday when he returns to the seaside flat. Pansy has left him a note to join her and Blaise on the beach, along with a vial of invigoration potion. He swigs the cool, tart liquid and then helps himself to a smidge of coke from Blaise's nightstand.

He finds them picnicking beneath a picturesque beach umbrella. Apparently, Trevor is out of town and Blaise is between flings, so it's just the three of them today. They munch on cucumber sandwiches, sip on sparkling guava cocktails, and watch the tide rise into the perfect surf. It's an idyllic afternoon, like so many they've had since coming here. Blaise falls asleep after lunch, leaving Draco to ride the waves alone.

"What do you say, Pans? Want to join me?"

To his surprise, she agrees, though not without casting several charms to protect her hair and make-up first. He takes the time to shrink Blaise's board to suit her better.

She's not bad for her first time, though Draco suspects she's using wandless magic to help with balance and speed. She tires quickly though, and soon they find themselves resting on their boards, floating just far enough from shore for the ocean to move in ripples instead of waves.

Despite all her preemptive spells, the salt water has tousled Pansy's hair and smeared her eyeliner. She looks younger, freer, happier, as if the waves had somehow absolved her of the stern grace and propriety expected of a sacred twenty-eight heiress.

They talk about nothing for a while. He's about to suggest they return to shore, when she reaches across the space between their boards and grasps his hand.

"Draco?"

His stomach falls.

"Hmm?" He pulls away as gently as he can.

"Come on," she scolds. "Don't be like that."

"Like what?"

"You tell me. Merlin knows what's going on with you these days."

He stays silent.

"Why don't you trust me?" He thinks he hears a catch in her voice, but she's composed when she continues. "Why can't you tell me?"

"Tell you what?"

"About why you've been so closed off lately. Today is the most normal you've been in weeks."

He shrugs. "It's nothing."

"Is it something with your parents?"

"No."

"Then what?"

"It's nothing. I'm fine."

"Bollocks." She scrambles into a sitting position on her board. "It's like sixth year all over again. Why can't you just let me be there for you? All the shit you were forced to do… I watched you slowly wither away that year until you disappeared from school and couldn't be bothered to return a single owl."

"I- I didn't think you'd understand."

"I think I've been nothing but understanding."

"That was almost two years ago now, Pans.," he says tiredly. "And if you've forgotten, _you_ broke up with _me_. It… I… I was failing..."

"Is that why you think I broke up with you? Because you _failed?_ "

"I don't want to talk about this."

"It's always about what you want, isn't it?"

"Why are you getting mad? Don't you have Trevor now?"

"It's not about _that_. I don't love you like that anymore. Trevor knows he has nothing to worry about. He knows that I care for you, _as a friend only_. Not that you deserve it. You want to know why I'm angry? It's because you're shutting me out again. Just like you shut me out in sixth year. I loved you, worried about you, cried for you. I knew they were making you do something horrible, because I could see how broken up and stressed you were all the time… and you kept me out! You never saw me as a real partner, Draco. And that's why I broke up with you. Not because you _failed the Dark Lord_. Fuck that shit. Fuck him and all his shit. And fuck you for thinking that after all these years as your friend, your girlfriend. I-" In her agitation, she tips the surf board and falls into the water with a shriek.

It's comical really, watching Pansy Parkinson splash about like a drowning chicken, but he isn't laughing. He rather thinks he's going to be sick.

He pulls his wand from its' compartment in his board. Then, he leans forward and grasps Pansy's hand, apparating them back into the flat, along with both boards and a crash of sea water.

The act of apparition seems to calm her down, and she moves easily into his arms when he pulls her in. Holding her bare skin again his feels foreign and familiar at the same time. She isn't the same girl she was two years ago, but the closeness, their understanding of each other, everything they've shared – it's all still there.

"I'm sorry," he says.

She's shivering and he holds her tighter.

"I'm just worried about you, Draco."

"I know. Everything's alright. I just..." He swallows hard. Even without the threat of Granger's curse, he wouldn't have been able to bring himself to tell Pansy. He doesn't want to explain how he's still a deplorable bastard, a coward in every way. "You don't need to worry," he says. "Just being here with the two of you. That's what I need right now."

She nods into his chest and pulls away.

"Just don't disappear like you did in sixth year, alright?"

"Alright."

After they _tergeo_ the mess of ocean water he had inadvertently splashed all over their living room, they make their way back to the beach. Blaise greets them with a sleepy grin.

"Are my eyes deceiving me? Did princess Pansy actually get her hair wet?" he teases.

She shrugs. "Surfing is fun. I'd do it again. Draco says I'm a natural."

"Is that right? This is something I have to see."

Draco lets Pansy use his board this time, content to sit under the umbrella and sip a cold beer. He watches as his best friends wade into the ocean and paddle out to meet the waves.

He reaches into his pocket, and fingers the map now charmed with all the protection spells he could think of. He thinks about the note Granger had left him this morning. He finishes his beer and rifles around in the cooler for something stronger.

* * *

He doesn't hear from her for weeks. Not that he expects to. He tells himself he's gotten her out of his system. That all he had needed was a few more good shags from her, which she had so eagerly provided.

But his Australian escape feels less glossy now.

Perhaps he's known all along how shallow his existence here is, floundering about in some clichéd poor little rich boy attempt to feel not so fucked up. And as he was drowning in chemical numbness and magical highs, he stumbled onto Hermione fucking Granger. And she'd offered him redemption, literally begged him to help her recover her parents' memories. While on her knees, with his dick in her mouth.

There are moments when he thinks he might be ready, finally brave enough to welcome that sort of darkness back into his life. But he isn't fit to play hero. It's simply not in his nature to charge blindly towards danger. He's not Harry Potter or Ron Weasley and he doesn't want to be.

Still, she's always bubbling to the surface of his mind when he least expects. He pictures her alone among all her dark magic tomes and caldrons of illegal potions. How desperately she'd pleaded for his help in retrieving her parents' memories, and how he'd refused. And how she'd fucked him anyway, like she had demons to exonerate. He resents her for refusing the money, for keeping the balance of debt in her favor. Fuck her.

But he can't quite seem to put away the memories of her so pliant and wanting, and at times, almost sweet. And he can't seem to throw the map away, or stop carrying it in his pocket. Not that he needs to look at it to know where she is most of the time. He knows her routine by heart. Like clockwork, she's in the park every weekday lunch hour. Then book stores or potion shops, and on Wednesday afternoons, the grocery store.

He doesn't quite admit to himself why he checks the map every night and is relieved to find it blank. That is, until one night, nearly a month later when he sees her name over the same hotel bar where he'd first met Lara. His mind races. Maybe she wants him to meet her there. Or maybe she's soliciting for cash again. In that case, why wouldn't she have asked _him_? Or taken the key to the vault?

Fuck. He can't _not_ go.

* * *

At the bar, he sees her before she sees him. An eerily familiar scene greets him as he nears. She's wearing the slinky, backless dress he's had dreams about ever since he first fucked her, and beside her, is an older man, the very same one from that first night. She's leaning in, smiling, running her hand over his thigh.

She makes eye contact with Draco about a second later, but her gaze rolls over him like he's furniture.

His lips flatten into a thin line. More than all the years of her unbearable swottiness, all the times she'd made it clear that she considered him beneath her including when she punched him in the face in third year, all her moral imperativeness – more than all that, _this_ is what he hates her most for. Making him fucking care and acting like she doesn't.

He's storming towards them before he knows what he's doing.

She takes her eyes off her companion for a brief second and makes an odd motion with her hand. He realizes too late that it's a spell, a powerful one that forces him to turn and take a seat at a distant booth. Merlin, she's somehow managed to cast a wandless variant of _Imperio_.

Against his will, he sits stoically and orders a drink when a waitress approaches him. Trapped by the spell, he's forced to sit and watch as the man trails his hand down her bare back down to her arse. She leans in to his touch and whispers something in his ear. Then they're getting up, presumably to go upstairs. She says something to him, and he gives her arse another squeeze before he walks out of the bar.

Granger moves as if heading to the wash room, but then doubles back after her companion leaves. He glares as her as she approaches him.

She looks even more beautiful up close, made up with smoky eyes and vermillion lips. He remembers all too well now how soft her skin is, and how wanton she is in bed.

"I'm sorry," she says quietly.

"Release the spell!" he hisses. "How dare you – "

"Shut up," she commands. "Don't cause a scene."

He stops talking, and feels his face relax into a kinder expression.

"Keep ordering drinks. Then, come to room 713 in two hours."

He watches helplessly as she walks away.

* * *

Exactly 120 minutes later, he rises from his seat and makes his way to the elevator. After he gets out on the seventh floor, he navigates his way to 713.

He knocks, then enters.

She's sitting at the edge of the rumpled bed, hair wet and wrapped in a hotel robe. Her make-up is gone, and she looks younger without it, more like the Granger he remembers from school.

" _Finite Incantum_ ," she says softly.

* * *

END OF CHAPTER 6

**Author's note: Okay, I know, I know. This was a very long wait between updates. I feel bad about it all the time. For the first time in my life, I'm realizing that I can't just keep putting off sleep and self-care. With how busy work/life has been, writing has really fallen to the back burner. However, I do have a pocket of time in the next couple weeks and I hope to post another chapter or two of AYIA before work completely consumes my life again. I've outlined the rest of the story already, and the next few chapter should be relatively easy to write. So much plot development to come! I'm very excited!**

**Thank you thank you thank you to all the lovely viewers who have left reviews in the past.**

**If you have the time, please leave a review. I would love to know what you think about the character development and how the plot is unfolding.**

**xoxo,**

**bourbonrain**


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's note: This chapter contains a scene of a sexual nature, tinged with dubious consent. Please proceed with caution, particularly if this could be a trigger for you.**

 

* * *

While confined downstairs, his initial anger eventually fizzled into uneasiness. Not only was Granger waist deep in dark potions, but she had no qualms against unforgivable spells either. He grudgingly rationalized that the most logical course after _Finite Incantum_ would be to politely excuse himself and return to a life free of her and all her burdens. Furthermore, that his initial reaction to her seduction of another had been bitter, raw jealousy was all the more reason to wash his hands of her.

In the first half-second after she releases him from _Imperio_ , he plans to do just that. But as he regains control over his mind and body, his higher-order thinking falls away to recklessness. The words slip out before he can reign them in.

"Did you fuck him?"

"What do you think?"

"Don't be impertinent." he snaps.

"What are you doing here, Draco?"

"Getting in line, apparently. You got another bloke planned for after me?"

Her eyes flash with irritation, but she doesn't answer. She pulls her robe tighter around herself, which only pisses him off more.

"Tell me." He learns forward so his forehead almost meets hers. "How many cocks is Hermione Granger servicing a night these days? Should I call Blaise? Tell him to join in? Any two for one specials?"

He can hear how spiteful he sounds, but any fucks he gives are singed away by returning rage, the sort that's hungry for battle. She had the gall to make him wait for hours while she fucked another man, after which she beckoned him upstairs to find her perched on sex-stained sheets.

She looks up at him coolly. "I'm closed for business tonight."

"The hell you are. Don't tell me old, sweaty McBaldy actually got you off."

She tilts her face up and her eyes fall to his lips. "He gave me what I needed."

Her wand is in her lap. She doesn't fight him when he pulls it out of her grasp and tosses it aside. And she doesn't blink when he locks the door with a wave of his hand. For a moment, he thinks he might kiss her and that she might let him. And for some reason, the thought makes him clench his fists in anger.

"I don't believe you."

She shrugs. He straightens his posture and steps back until he's leaning against the dresser.

"You could have at least cast _scourgify_ on the bed."

At that, she looks slightly contrite. "I thought about it," she admits. "But it felt like a lie."

He lets out a strangled laugh. "Right, because there's nothing deceptive about you at all."

She looks down at her hands. "What are you doing here?" she asks again.

"Do you not recall forcing me into this room with an unforgivable?"

"I do," she answers calmly. "I mean, what are you _still_ doing here?"

For a while, neither of them say anything. He's still fully aware of the wisdom in jumping ship, but as usual, he can't bring himself to walk away. He wants to ask how she's doing, what she's been up to in the weeks since he last saw her, why she had refused his galleons.

Unexpectedly, she's the one the break the silence. "Does it get you off to pay me for sex?"

"I thought you liked being my whore."

She blushes. Only Hermione Granger could at once be both prostitute and blushing school girl. Merlin, the way she's chewing on her bottom lip. He hates how much he wants her still.

"You're wrong, Granger."

"About what?"

"He didn't give you what you needed."

She chortles dryly. "And you're the expert on my needs?"

He strides forward again. This time, he reaches for the collar of her robe and pulls her up until she's standing. But when he begins to tug at the knot holding her garment together, she places her hands over his and stills him.

"No," she says firmly. "Not tonight."

"Why not?"

"I just can't, okay?"

"No," he snaps. "Not okay."

She's struggling for real now, scratching at his arms as he pushes her down and parts her robe from neck to pussy.

"Stop!" she cries, but it's too late. He sees it all - her once smooth, unblemished skin covered in hickeys and bruises and bite marks. Her eyes are unreadable when she looks up at him.

Shock quickly reverts back to fury. "And you couldn't bother to clean these up either, eh? How _honest_ of you."

She moves to push him away, but he grips her wrists and holds them at her sides.

"I told you I didn't want to tonight. What are you doing?! Malfoy!"

Ignoring her cries, he reaches down to stroke between her legs.

"God, you're sick," she bites out. "What? Does it turn you on to see me like this?"

"It turns you on, apparently."

He lowers his body over hers. She's given up struggling now and has parted her legs, allowing him to grind his hardness against her.

It's not too late to leave. Apologize, ask for forgiveness, and go home. But he knows he won't.

"Did you beg him to fuck you harder?" he asks against her ear.

She nods into his neck. He reaches down and delves a finger into her moistening slit.

"Did he hurt you?"

She shakes her head.

"Were you a whore for him too?"

"Yes," she whispers, and he withdraws his fingers to slap her mound. She moans.

"Do you still want me to stop?"

She lifts her head and kisses him, dragging his lips between her teeth. He closes his eyes and kisses her back - tongues and lips and flesh against flesh. Not just any lips, not just any skin, not just any hair threading through his fingers- _hers_. It kills him how right she feels.

"Fuck, this is fucked up," he mutters. He shoves her further back onto the bed. The smell of the other man's cologne still lingers faintly on the sheets, but it doesn't matter. Not when he's two fingers knuckle deep inside her sex, and just like that, she's already dripping in his favorite way.

"How can you still want me like this?" Her words are breathy and disjointed.

He doesn't know how to answer that, so instead he roughly palms her breasts and teases her nipples into peaks. She draws his hardness out and strokes him until he's leaking cum. When he's ready, he bats her hands away and plunges into her warmth in a single stroke.

He fucks her unforgivingly, each thrust a blow against the best pussy he's ever had.

"Stupid whore," he grits out.

"Don't call me stupid."

"What do you call this then? Brightest witch of her age fucking for money?"

"You didn't seem to mind before."

"Stupid. So, so stupid."

"Why?" she cries. "Why do you still want me then?"

"You're still you, you swotty bitch," he rasps. "I can't _not_ want you."

"I know." She chants it like a mantra. "I know I know I know." Then she's kissing him and pulsing around him, moaning her release against his throat.

"Keep going," she says afterwards, lifting her pelvis to fuck him back. "I want you to come inside me.

He pulls out and flips her around and finds that deliciously tight grip her cunt has on his cock from this angle.

"You still like being called a whore?" He yanks her back by her hair and roughly slams his length into her.

"Only by you. Please, oh my god, please."

"You like getting slapped around, whore?"

"Yesss, just like that. Please don't stop."

"You beg him like this too?"

"No, no, not like this."

"Liar."

"No, no," she moans. "Never like this. Never with anyone else."

He reaches down and slicks some of her wetness onto his fingers. Then he's easing a digit, then two into her ass and she's spasming in pleasure in countless perfect throbs around him, milking him until he's spent.

"Fuck."

He pulls out and leaves her in a crumpled heap. He moves to the edge of the bed, panting for breath, trying to process this most recent mind fuck that they've put themselves through.

"Malfoy?"

He ignores her, his heart still thudding in his ears. 

"I want to get out of this room."

He glances back. She's pulled the sheets over her body, a caricature of modesty.

"No one's stopping you."

"Can you take me home without Pansy Parkinson or Blaise Zabini knowing about it?"

He shrugs.

"Can you just… take me home? Please?"

"Why?"

"I just don't think I could bear to be alone right now."

He groans. "Fuck you, Granger."

* * *

It's surreal to have her in his room, to watch as her eyes wander over the minimalist decor. He lets her explore. She runs her fingers over his pristinely made bed, his seldom-used top-of-the-line broom, the half-empty vial of dreamless sleep on his nightstand. 

"I like your home," she says primly. She standing at his desk, starring expressionlessly at the neat stack of unopened letters from his mother, and at the two framed photos - one of him and his parents, the other of him and Crabbe and Goyle. Both are from years ago, before everything went to shit.

He doesn't answer, but she doesn't seem to mind. She wanders over to his terrace door and fiddles with the handle until it slides open.

He joins her outside, and for minutes, they stare into the dark of night, listening to the persistent crash of waves against sand.

"You like the beach," she remarks.

He clears his throat uncomfortably. "I guess I do."

"Every time we've met, you've picked a room with an ocean view. And here, you sleep next to one."

"I suppose that's accurate."

After some time, she finds her way to his en-suite bathroom and shuts the door behind her. He hears the shower come on. He casts a cleaning spell on himself and collapses into bed. She's gone for over an hour, and when she reappears, he sees that she's healed all the marks which had marred her body.

He doesn't feel like acknowledging it, so he doesn't.

"Thank you," she says, as she climbs under the covers with him.

He snorts.

"I know we've never particularly liked each other."

"No, we haven't."

"But this is something, isn't it?"

"Another whore-client relationship, I imagine." He tries to keep his tone matter-of-fact and free of malice. 

She doesn't say anything for a while.

"Does it turn you on to pay me for sex?"

It's the second time she's asked him this tonight.

He frowns. "Is that really what you think?"

"I honestly don't know what to think. You keep seeking me out, but you refuse to help me."

"I gave you your own vault, enough to cover any costs you might incur."

"I don't want to be bought. Not by you. I don't want your restitution."

"Then, what do you want?"

"I want..." She sinks further under the covers. "God, I guess I wish everything were different."

He laughs dryly.

"How's your quest coming along?"

"I'm close. Really close."

"That's good, I suppose."

"Malfoy?"

"What?"

"Will you hold me?"

"Woman, we've fucked six ways to Sunday. You're asking for permission to _cuddle_?"

For a moment, she looks as if she might cry, which makes him feel like the asshole. Again.

He drags her against him. As she rests her head against his chest, he wonders if she'll judge the thudding of his heart. They lay together quietly, and it's that feeling of rightness again, threatening the fence he knows he should keep between them.

"I wish," she says without looking at him, "That things could have been different. Between us, I mean."

What the fuck is he supposed to do with a line like that? He says nothing, glaring moodily at the ceiling, wishing that he'd never brought her here. Into his bed. Further into his world.

"Do you think they would be," she presses on. "If we had met in a different life?"

He feels her holding her breath, waiting for him to respond. Sighing, he swallows against the hardness in his throat.

"They're different anyway," he says finally. "Even in this life."

Eventually, she falls asleep with her head tucked beneath his chin. He stays awake for as long as he can, holding her like it all fucking means something.

* * *

 

END OF CHAPTER 7

**Hello lovely readers! Hope this chapter quenched some of your dramione thirst. Things are about to get even more dark next chapter, so I thought I'd leave it on a nice-ish note for once. I would love to hear what you think about how their relationship is progressing!  
**

**Thank you thank you thank you to for leaving kudos and reviews! It's so very nice to get feedback, and to know that people are enjoying this story. I'm glad the edits of the previous chapters have gone over well. And if there's anything you _don't_ like, I'd like to know about that as well. I'm a sucker for constructive criticism. **

********I'm going to try to get the next couple chapters out as quickly as I can. Unfortunately, this means that the writing won't always be as polished as I'd like. I'll most likely have to go through and re-write bits of the story after it's all done. #WIPproblems** ** ** **

****xoxo,** **

****bourbonrain** **


	8. Chapter 8

* * *

It's the final moments in the match against Gryffindor. He's zooming towards the snitch, his broom pointed straight down at the ground. Potter is close behind, gaining speed.

Over the raucous cheering of the crowd, her taunt rings clear, "At least no one on the Gryffindor team had to buy their way in."

Mudblood bitch.

He grits his teeth and stretches his torso flat against his firebolt, locking his arms forward into perfect aerodynamic form. The snitch is so very close, but then again, so is the ground. A split second before he crashes, he flings his hand out towards the fluttering orb. The golden wings slice at his flesh as he closes his fingers around it. For once, victory is his.

He attempts to draw the tip of his broom upwards, but not soon enough. He expects sharp, brutal agony like Sectumsemptra or the Dark Mark. Rather, there's not much pain at all. He registers that he's fallen somewhere poorly lit, half buried among books with cracked spines and yellowed pages. In the distance, there are more tomes, piled up towards the ceiling in momentous stacks.

His instincts tell him to jump up and climb the nearest stack. Soon he remembers why. All around him are flames. He knows how to stop it this time, to keep Crabbe from falling into the deadly fiendfyre. He keeps climbing, calling for his friends. The higher he goes, the wobblier the stack gets. He can't bear to look down, so he continues onward, willing himself to survive. It's no use though. Eventually the heat engulfs his flesh and smoke fills lungs, and he wonders if this is what it feels like to become ash.

When he comes to, he's surrounded by books again. This time, he's trapped among thick layers of dark magic and a thousand caldrons filled with illegal potions. There's a sharp ache in his shoulder from falling against the pathetic cot she calls her bed.

"Draco," she pleads and she's looking at him with those bedroom eyes. He lets her drape herself over him, and whisper to him the secrets of memoriae summoveo. After she's done, he brushes her hair behind her ears.

"Come with me," he says.

For once, she listens. He pulls her with him to the closest stack of books. They climb together this time, reaching up towards the artificial sky.

* * *

He can still taste the intensity of the dream when he wakes. She's asleep beside him and the reality of her in his bed quickly pulls him into consciousness. It's the first time he's brought a woman home here in Sydney. With others, he had gone to theirs or opted to get a hotel room. It certainly made for easy exits. He wonders if she'll slip away the same way he does when she wakes.

As if sensing his gaze, she moves restlessly in her sleep. He can see the outline of her breast through the sheet and just like that, he already longs to have her again. He reaches out and thumbs her nipple through the cloth.

"Mmm," she stirs.

He gently shifts closer to her and brushes a kiss against her shoulder, and then her neck.

She mumbles something he can't make out.

He hesitates. "Hermione?"

It feels strange to say her given name aloud, like he's still dreaming.

"Keep going," she mumbles sleepily.

He doesn't need more permission than that. He pulls the sheet back and envelops one nipple in his mouth, nibbling gently before moving on to the other. She shifts until she's fully on her back, eyes still closed, hands lazily tousling his hair.

He reaches down to finger her folds. She's not quite wet yet, so he lowers his mouth to her core, fucking her with his tongue to ready her for his cock. Whimpering, she pushes her hips down and rocks against his ministrations. Merlin, he loves how wanton she gets for him. Unable to wait any longer, he positions himself at her entrance and plunges in.

Her eyes fly open then. "Fuck," she gasps.

She's so tight and warm that he has to pause to avoid coming there and then. He revels in how her walls stretch to accommodate him, how she can't seem to help but squeeze him, squirm beneath him, biting her need into his shoulder.

"More," she breathes, bowing her hips upwards to hold him deeper inside her.

He watches her face carefully as he begins moving. It's still dark out, but pink and white are beginning to bleach the horizon. She looks beautiful in the burgeoning light, looking up at him through half-lidded eyes, softly moaning her pleasure. All around them is quiet, save for the sound of their bodies moving together.

All those other girls he fucked behind glamours – it made him feel good because of the anonymity. He felt like he could be anyone, someone worthy of adoration, and he greedily took whatever fleshly affection they gave him. He needed it, got high off it in some broken, screwed up way.

But here with Granger, he knows she sees right through him, that she knows all the worst parts of him - spoiled, entitled, bigoted, and cowardly. He's only even been cruel to her, and still, she reaches up and tucks his hair gently behind his ears, parting her lips for a kiss. It makes him want to make it good for her, to give her pleasure as a reprieve from the darkness she's surrounded herself with. As fucked up as they are together, he feels privileged to get to have her like this, so open and pliant for him in his bed.

It doesn't take much for her to come, and when she does, she presses desperate little kisses against his jaw. He wonders if perhaps this is a dream after all. Real or not, he wants to savor it. He fucks her slowly, decadently, memorizing the graceful curve of her neck, the red of her swollen lips, the feel of her moving with him. It's so different from the angry fuck he pushed her into last night.

He thinks back to her question – could they be together had they met under different circumstances? It doesn't matter really, because even in the ideal alternate reality, he'd still be an asshole, and still be completely undeserving of this brilliant, beautiful girl. And it wouldn't stop him from wanting her, from taking her, from hoping selfishly that she'd choose to stay with him.

"Mine," he growls against her neck, shifting her leg up over his shoulder to fuck her harder. He finds the nub at the apex of her sex and thumbs it teasingly.

She moans desperately, unintelligibly.

"Say it," he commands.

"Fuck," she gasps. He feels her coming again, pulsing around him, breathing hard against his chest. He holds himself deep inside her and vibrates his fingers against her clit, drawing out her orgasm.

"Fuck." She runs her nails across his back, as if to show him how much he's making her feel. "Malfoy, what are you doing to me?"

"Say you're _mine_ , Granger."

"I'm yours. I'm yours. I can't. I can't. Please, please, ohhh."

He didn't think it was possible, but her pussy clamps down even harder around him, and he can't hold back his release any longer.

After, they're slumped against each other in a sweaty mess. He tries to think of something nice to say, but sleep overtakes him before the words come to him.

* * *

When he wakes again, it's late morning. He can hear Pansy and Blaise moving about their kitchen. One of them turns on the blender, probably Pansy – she's taken to making concoctions of fruit and vegetables for breakfast, something called a "smooshie."

To his surprise, Granger is still asleep, curled up against his side. He summons his wand and casts locking and silencing spells. He shudders to think what sort of permanent scar might unfold across his forehead if either one of his roommates bursts in.

She rouses easily when he nudges her.

"Mm? What time is it?" she mumbles sleepily.

He slides down so they're facing each other. "Eleven fifteen."

She's still struggling to open her eyes. It occurs to him that she probably doesn't get much sleep these days.

"I should go," she says, though she doesn't move to get up.

"More potions to stir?"

"Actually," she says, stretching onto her back. "I finished a rather promising batch a few weeks ago."

"Oh?" He pulls her closer to him, enjoying the feel of her slim waist in his hands, the smell of her hair around him. "So what does that mean then? Your parents remember you again?"

"Not quite." She looks up at the ceiling, avoiding his gaze. "Soon though, hopefully. After the testing phase is complete."

"The testing phase?"

"Yes," she answers shortly. "Hey, do you think your roommates heard us last night?"

"No, and it wouldn't matter if they did."

"Right." She frowns and turns away from him.

He pulls her back. "Where do you think you're going?"

She looks at him then, and gives him a smile that doesn't reach her eyes.

"I have things to do."

He snorts. "Yeah, I bet you do."

"You have a floo here?"

"No, the place is carefully warded. I have to apparate you out."

He pulls himself up into a sitting position. Apparently, she takes that as her cue to rise from the bed. And just like that, the closeness he'd felt to her dissipates. What did he think, really? That they'd stay in the haze of pre-dawn orgasmic bliss forever?

She finds her dress and pulls it on. He watches as she magics the garment into something more appropriate for daytime.

He wants to ask when he'll see her again. Better yet, he wants to stop her from slipping away altogether, from condemning him to the inevitable parsing and analyzing of every new memory they've created until he's once again filled with want and self-loathing and resentment.

Instead, he remains wordless as she slips into her stilettos and charms them into leather sandals.

She does a final survey of his room, like she's checking to see if she's forgotten anything. When she stalks by his desk, she once again looks down at the stack of unopened letters from his mother.

To her credit, she doesn't say anything, but he can tell she disapproves, that she thinks he's ungrateful. After all, everyone knows his mother had defied the Dark Lord to save him. After all, he has parents who know who he is. He grits his jaw in annoyance, remembering just how much he's always resented her sanctimoniousness.

He finds his boxers at the edge of the bed and puts them on. Now it's her turn to watch as he pulls on his clothes. She stands there expectantly, with her hands on her hips.

"Draco," she says, then hesitates.

"What?"

She shakes her head. "Nothing. It's nothing."

He snorts again. "That's Hermione Granger for you."

Her eyes narrow. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing." He stops himself before saying something he'll regret.

"No! Tell me what you mean."

"Let me get you out of here." He reaches for her hand.

She backs away from him. "Why are you being like this?"

"I thought you were an expert at reading my face."

"Not when you're hot and cold like this. And it's not like I ever understood why you were such an arse all the time back in school either."

"Isn't that what you get off on? Getting hate fucked?" he sneers.

She shakes her head. "I don't understand you, Malfoy. You seek me out and when we're having sex, it's… you're…" She blushes. "It's nice. But afterwards, you're always so cold. Is this how you are with other girls too?"

He shrugs. He doesn't want to talk about other women with her.

"I don't want you to turn up anymore. This needs to stop."

His blood turns cold at her words. It's hard to believe they'd been so intimate just hours earlier. He thinks back to how sweet she had been, crawling into his bed, not to fuck, but just for comfort. He feels himself putting up his walls, retreating to where it hurts less.

"So, you're done with me then? Even after -" Even after everything she said last night. He hardens his jaw. He's not about to beg to keep seeing her.

She looks down at her hands.

"Oh, Draco," he mimics in a high-pitched voice. "Fuck me harder. Help me forget all my blunders with prostitution and dark magic."

She flushes angrily. "Shut up. Don't be horrible."

"What? Am I wrong? Then you tell me all this sappy shit to convince yourself this is something more, that you're still Saint Granger, and not some sad piece of shit whore."

He sees the slap coming, and he lets her do it. He welcomes the sting against his cheek.

They're both breathing hard now. She glares at him, and he thinks about how much easier it used to be to make her cry.

When she speaks again, her voice is gentler. "You think I'm using you, and it hurts you."

He shrugs. "It doesn't really matter what I think."

"Well, that's certainly the least narcissistic thing you've ever said."

"Oh, fuck you, whore."

"Don't!" she snaps. "Don't call me that. That's not what I am. That's not what this is!"

"Then what is it? Hmm? You want me to break the law, to do Dark things for you, things Potter and Weasley wouldn't do. Let me guess, your dirty cunt wasn't enough to convince them either, was it?"

"Shut up! You don't know what you're talking about."

"Then fucking explain it to me!"

"Two more weeks, and it's over. My three years will be up. Until then, I'm asking you... I need you to leave me alone."

"You don't have to screw creepy old men for money, Granger."

"I have to do what I have to do." Her arms are crossed, not in anger, but around her waist, like she's holding herself. Even now, he wants to pull her in, to kiss her, and have her, and to give her everything she's ever wanted. Everything, except Dark magic. That, he supposes, is the crux of why he doesn't deserve her, because he simply isn't capable of making that sort of sacrifice again.

"You have two more weeks. Then what?"

"I don't know."

Then, he sees it - the pity in her eyes. He understands now, that this is her version of goodbye, because she doesn't know if she'll come back after the reversal of memoriae summoveo. He sits down on the edge of his bed, feeling at once spiteful and defeated.

He shakes his head. "It isn't worth it, Granger. What you're doing to yourself."

"It's worth it to me."

"I can't let you do this."

She laughs without humor. "That's what Harry and Ron said too."

"Well, they not wrong," he snaps.

"It isn't their choice. Or yours."

He doesn't respond. The air between them feels thick with all the things he doesn't know how to say.

Finally, she breaks the silence. "Will you take me to the park? It's almost noon."

Reluctantly, he gives her his hand. When she intertwines her fingers with his, he pulls her in and presses his lips to hers. It's the sort of kiss he would have given her in a different life – sweet and chaste with her face cradled in his hands.

When he pulls away, he thinks he might see tears in her eyes. Guess she still cries easy after all.

"Alright." He clears his throat. "Let's go."

* * *

For days after, he feels hungover, not from alcohol or substances for once, but from the high of being with her. Without the possibility of having her again, his world feels dull and unsatisfying, like discovering a muscle he can no longer flex.

As if in sync with her breaking it off, the weather gets colder, greyer, and wetter. It's winter now in Sydney, and his fellow surfers have taken to wearing wetsuits. The tides are higher and more violent, knocking him off his board without mercy. He welcomes the challenge. He takes up flying again too, spending hours racing against the salty South Pacific wind and weaving through the thick forests of fragrant sassafras north of the city. It feels good to be on a broom again. When he's focused on zooming faster through the air or riding the rough waves beneath his board, he doesn't have to ask himself why it cut so deep to lose a woman who was never his in the first place.

Over the next week, he keeps to himself in this way. It isn't hard to do since Pansy and Trevor have decided to portkey over to New Zealand for a few days and Blaise is newly smitten and preoccupied with another fling of the week.

At night, when he can't sleep, he wavers between wistfulness over all the things he could have said and done differently over the last few months, and anger that in the end, she still chose to continue her Dark path, unsure if she'd ever return. The brightest witch of their generation. What a fucking waste.

He can't even look at the map anymore, though he can't bring himself to incinerate it either. Because a small part of him still whispers, what if?

* * *

In the depth of his loneliness, he finally gets around to reading his parents' letters.

 **Dear Draco,  
**  
**The Greengrasses still haven't heard from you. Daphne and Astoria will be visiting Sydney in a few months. Won't you write to them so they can visit you? I just get so worried, thinking of you three all alone, so far away –**

He sets that letter aside and opens another.

**_Dear Draco,_ **

**_Did you get the sweets I sent? Pansy does still like the rose creams, doesn't she? The woman at the store still always holds some in reserve for us. I have it on good authority that -_ **

He sighs and puts the paper down. He opens another and scans it briefly. Then another. His mother's words are all pleasant ramblings, not unlike the letters she used to send him at school. She writes to him daily, unwaveringly, even though he seldom replies. Back at Hogwarts, he had written back faithfully, ever the dutiful son. For all his faults, he can still be that at least. He resolves to write her back something kind, with the proper excuses for his lapse in correspondence. He owes her that much.

His father has written as well, another short note judging from the lightness of the envelope.

**_Draco_ ,**

**_In reviewing our accounts, I noticed a large withdrawal from your account. The blasted goblins won't tell me what you've spent it on. Frankly, I don't care except to inform you that the ministry is tracking all galleons for associations with Dark Magic. They are aware of resurgence activity. Your mother would be greatly disappointed were you to do anything else to shame us._ **

**_LM_ **

He sets the parchment down, fists clenching at Lucius's blatant refusal to take responsibility for his own role in crippling their family. The man had the gall to accuse him of seeking Dark powers. Doesn't he know by now that his son had never wanted to touch Dark Magic in the first place, that he had been blackmailed and tortured into it because of Lucius's own shitty, selfish decisions?

When he was younger, Draco thought he hated Potter and his sidekicks. That was nothing compared to the rage he's felt towards his father since the war. This, he understands, is real hate. The kind that can only be borne from a lifetime of wasted love and betrayed trust. All his life, Draco had been so desperate to live up to Lucius's pureblood ideals, had idolized his apparent power and wisdom. Guess the joke was on him, on them, on the rancid Malfoy name.

He spends that evening trying to drown himself in whiskey and dreamless sleep. Somewhere in the bottom of the bottle, he remembers how Granger had refused the key to the bank vault.

_The ministry is tracking all galleons for associations with Dark Magic._

Bloody Gryffindor.

Noble to the fucking end.

* * *

"You okay, mate?" Blaise asks.

He's tired of being asked if he's okay, but he shrugs and nods. "Of course, why wouldn't I be?"

It's late afternoon, and they've been dragged to a sporting event by Trevor and Pansy. "Rugby," it appears, is the muggle equivalent of quidditch. Draco finds it dreadfully boring – there's only one ball and no flying at all. In addition, he feels ill from trying to get drunk off of bland stadium beer. What he wouldn't give for a decent tumbler of fire whisky.

"I'm fine," he adds. "Just nowhere near sloshed enough to enjoy this."

"I know," Blaise says conspiratorially. "There's not even a snitch!"

Pansy kicks him in the shin.

"Ow!"

"Shut up you two," she hisses. "You have to give it a proper chance."

Draco scowls, downs more tepid beer, and tries to feel happy for Pansy in spite of the fact that she's fallen for a man who likes this dull rubbish. Merlin, what are they doing down there? Forming human towers?

"Alright, alright," Blaise says pleasantly, though to Draco, he surreptitiously flashes the inside of his coat pocket. "You want a hit of something? This beer is terrible. I smoked out half a quarter ago."

"Fuck, yes." Thank goodness for good old Blaise, and his dependable drug habit.

"You want to go up or down?"

"Just give me everything you have."

His friend shoots him a weighted look, and Draco scowls. Merlin, who is Blaise to judge? The man hasn't been sober since they were fourteen.

Around them, the crowd erupts in cheers. Pansy and Trevor both leap up, clapping furiously with the muggles around them. At her sideways glare, Blaise and Draco stand too.

"Fine," Blaise says. "Take it all."

"Thanks," Draco mutters and excuses himself from the rowdy crowd.

"You alright, Drake?" Trevor asks from the other side of Pansy.

He flashes them the best grin he can muster. "Yeah. Just got to take a whiz."

"Right-O! Hey, mind picking us up some more beers?"

"Sure thing."

The stadium bathroom is empty when he enters. Apparently, it's too exciting a moment in the match for the muggles to urinate. He looks down at the white powder Blaise had given him, and dips a finger in.

* * *

His memories of the next few hours are patchy.

He doesn't remember much beyond snorting a few fingertips of pleasurium powder and taking deep hits from Blaise's electronic pipe.

He does recall that the high which follows was numbing and wonderful.

He has glimmers of the four of them going to a bar after the game, of taking shots with some girls Blaise chats up. Later, or maybe before, he's in a dark, pulsing nightclub, bouncing to a beat that pounds against his heart. He remembers laughing a lot and closing his eyes and not knowing which way was up.

Sometime in the night, he fishes out the map and sees her name written over Kuringai National Park, the same forest she had disappeared into months ago.

He knows he has to go to her. To stop her from completing whatever foolish, self-sacrificing, self-punishing plan she had in store for herself.

At some point, he finds her at the same hotel bar. She's beautiful as always, cherry lips and shiny hair. It's deja-vu again, the same backless dress, the same balding man, the same hand sliding up his thigh. Or is it his own thigh she's touching?

He remembers her coming up to him, her irises bright and her pupils big and dark.

"It's working!" She sounds gleeful. "You were right about the poplar. It's almost time for the counter spell."

"Stop doing this to yourself," she tells him, or maybe that's what he says to her.

They're kissing now, and all he remembers later, is that she tastes so cold it hurts.

* * *

**END OF CHAPTER 8**

**Author's note:**

Hello lovelies! First off, thank you to each and everyone one of you who took the time to leave reviews, or to reach out to me via messages or tumblr asks. I truly treasure every single piece of feedback and support. I especially want to thank the wonderful LightofEvolution for giving me some very useful advice on my updating schedule and improving the quality of my writing :).

Next, I want to thank you for your patience. I know I'm taking longer than you'd like between updates. For real, this has been the most stressful year I've ever had in my professional life. The reality is that I have to prioritize writing last after my career and my partner and sleeping. That said, writing is something that truly brings me joy and I absolutely plan on finishing both WIPs I have going.

If you have time, I would love to know what you think of this chapter! Dun dun dun! The plot has moved forward!

XOXO,

bourbonrain


	9. Chapter 9

* * *

Somehow, he wakes up in his own bed. For a split second, it feels just like any other day, until he remembers that he's had another taste of her. Not that he recalls much of it.

His mind feels numb, still insulated by the residual high from whatever was in Blaise's pipe. From experience, he knows that in a few hours, the full ramifications of seeing her again will hit him harder.

For now, he sifts through the blurred memories from last night. He doesn't remember her words, but he recalls the quality of them – manic with excitement for her predicted success.

She had left before he could stop her, in an anticlimactic little pop of apparition.

The whole thing could have been a dream, but he doesn't think his subconscious would have conjured up her literal coldness. She had felt like winter against his lips, like the sting of a snowstorm against bare skin. It reminded him of how icy and numb his own hands would get when perfecting dark curses alone in the Room of Requirement.

Reflexively, he summons the map. It's blank of course. Then, he remembers how he had frantically tracked her on it the night before, and the exact moment her name disappeared over Kuringai National Park.

He lays in bed for a few minutes more, until the urge to urinate wins against inertia. Afterwards, he wanders into the kitchen. It's nearly two in the afternoon, and the plate of eggs left for him on the counter looks stale and unappetizing. He eats it anyway.

His phone buzzes and he sees the slew of unread messages from his roommates.

 

Pansy (12:04 am): Where are you guys?

Pansy (12:04 am): Never mind, I see you.

Pansy (12:05 am): Ew Blaise, I can see her thong coming out of her shorts.

Pansy (12:47 am): Trevor and I are going to call it a night.

Blaise (1:48 am): I'm by the upstairs bar.

Blaise (2:01 am): Where you at?

Blaise (2:01 am): Blondie is looking for you.

Blaise (2:14 am): I'm going back to Kara's place. Byeeeee.

Blaise (9:04 am): Are you home?

Blaise (9:11 am): Never mind. I can hear you snoring. I'm going to silencio you.

Blaise (9:37 am): You do remember we're all supposed go to my mum's for her birthday today, right?

Blaise (9:39 am): Wake up, you lazy wanker. Why do you cast so many wards on your bedroom?

Blaise (9:39 am): Got a girl in there?

Blaise (10:41 am): How can she sleep through your snoring?

Blaise (10:41 am): Wait, is that her snoring?

Blaise (10:41): I'm going to cast another silencio.

Pansy (11:04 am): Breakfast is on the counter for you, Draco. What would you do without me?

Blaise (12:11 pm): We are leaving for Ravello in an hour, with or without you.

Blaise (1:00 pm): MALFOY!

Blaise (1:35 pm): Okay, text me when you wake up. I'll portkey back to get you.

Blaise (2:12 pm): Are you up yet?

 

He sets down his phone and takes out the map. It's still blank.

He thinks about how nice it is at this time of year in scenic Ravello. Blaise had even assured him that the crowd wouldn't include anyone from Britain except them. Their indulgent avoidance of reality could continue uninterrupted in the beautiful southern coast of Italy. He thinks about drinking limoncello and finally getting around to fucking Blaise's cousin who's had a crush on him forever. It's certainly the more fun choice for what he could be doing this afternoon.

He stares down at the empty map. Last time she disappeared into the forest, it took a week before her name appeared again.

Before he can change his mind, he sends off a text with an excuse about not feeling well. Then, he switches his phone off.

Fucking Granger, he thinks. Bloody, stubborn, self-sacrificing idiot.

* * *

The rain starts when he's just halfway to Kuringai. Keeping one hand on his broom, he fumbles for his wand and casts a weather protection spell. In the quiet of the resulting bubble that shields him from the elements, his mind flashes to how dark her eyes had been last night. He's seen his own eyes like that before and knows firsthand the chilly thrill of power she must have been feeling.

He slows his breathing and leans down flush against the handle to go faster. He'll find her, he tells himself.

At the edge of the forest, he slows and pulls out his wand.

"Revelaris imperium magna!"

The spell to reveal dark magic takes several minutes to spread through the trees, but it works. From the center of the park, a red light bursts upwards and disappears into the gray sky.

His heart quickens.

For a moment, he hesitates. She didn't ask him to come. Perhaps, she doesn't want him here. She might be fine, better without him even. After all, she certainly doesn't lack in power. And it's not too late to go home and pack for Italy.

Then he thinks about her crawling into his bed, curling into him, telling him things that made his chest tighten. She must have felt so alone all these months to seek comfort from him of all people.

Fuck it. He's come this far already. No point in turning back now.

Even with the help of the tracking spell, he weaves through the trees for hours before he finds the small clearing.

He surmises that he's stumbled upon a complex ritual, likely ancient based on the runic arrangement of stones circumscribing the area. At the center sits a glass receptacle, its' contents glowing with the telltale opal iridescence of gingko animo. As he nears, he recognizes the runes as ones meant to cordon off and stabilize high-energy magic.

His skin prickles as he steps forward past the stone border, for the air becomes thick and dark save for the eerie light of the potion. Fuck. Something has gone horribly awry. Light and matter and magic feel dangerously unbalanced, and the ground rumbles with barely contained energy. He looks around frantically.

It takes him nearly a minute to spot her. She's slumped on the ground in the shadows, outside of the glow of the potion.

"Granger!" He shakes her limp form. She stirs easily.

"Hmm?"

"Granger! What is going on? We have to get out of here."

She opens her eyes lazily and looks up at him. "Malfoy?"

"Granger!"

"Grain. Jer." She says it gingerly, as if testing out the syllables of her own surname for the first time.

And then it hits him.

"No, no… Fuck!" Now, his own head is throbbing. Quickly, he leaps away and throws up occlumency shields. It helps some, but he can still feel the force of the spell slithering through his memories for pieces of her. He wonders if this was what it was like for her parents before she was whisked from their minds.

He steels his jaw in determination. "Come on, come on," he says, half to himself. "Focus."

He scans the clearing again, and this time, he spots it – the book. Of course, there's a goddamn book where Granger's involved. Visually, it's unassuming, no larger than the size of his palm, but as he reaches for it, the sickening thrum of dark energy is unmistakable. It turns his stomach, and he almost vomits as he flips to the page she's marked with a ribbon.

He looks back at Granger, who's still moving at a glacial pace. She's sitting up now, gingerly rubbing her temples.

Careful to avoid her gaze, he rushes over and shoves the open book into her hands. "Here! Look! Where did you leave off?"

"That's right," she says slowly. "I was working on something, wasn't I? Quite tricky to cast."

"Focus, golden girl," he snaps impatiently. The pain in his head seems to intensify with proximity to her. He squeezes his eyes shut in concentration, struggling to cloak his memories from the probing curse. "Come on. Where did you leave off?"

"I had just finished the bit with the dandelion roots. Merlin, I've the most terrible headache."

"Dandelion roots," he repeats. He forces his eyes open to scan the narrow margins of the text, where she had neatly penned notes. Three-quarters down the page are the words, "Crush dandelion roots slightly before adding them. Then cast. REH-teh FRAN-jeet. Wand 3x clockwise, 1x counterclockwise, flick."

He'd never been more appreciative of her swotty nature. "Good girl," he says. "10 fucking points to Gryffindor."

Then, because he doesn't think occlumency can stave off the power of the amnesiac magic any longer, he grabs his wands and chants, "Rete Frangit," and moves his hand as her notes instructed.

At first nothing happens, but then slowly, the ground stills and the potion dulls to plain white pigment. The air softens too, until it's cool and damp and soothing against the residual pain in his head. Tentatively, he lets down his shields.

"Malfoy?" She's rubbing her temples again, as she slowly gets to her feet.

"Thank fucking Merlin." He thinks he might cry from the relief.

Realization dawns on her face. "I got lost, didn't I?"

He wants to hug her and shake her and scream at her all at once. He settles for the latter.

"You stupid witch!"

"You came," she says, and she's looking at him the way she did the night she had come home with him, with trust he's sure he doesn't deserve.

"Granger –"

"I'm the brightest witch of my age, you know. Everyone says so."

"You stupid, stupid witch. You forgot yourself?"

She shrugs her shoulders once and looks away. "The past couple of nights, he remembered me. I thought it was working."

"He? The muggle man – the fat one from the bar?"

"He's not that fat."

"HE was the testing phase?"

Her lips spread into a faint smile. "You always were clever in school."

"First, we're going to get the fuck out of this goddamn forest. Then you are going to explain. Everything."

She opens her mouth to argue, but then seems to think better of it.

"Alright," she says. "Where should we go?"

* * *

He lets her use his bathroom to shower and get warm. Grumbling, he slams drawers and cabinets in the kitchen, until he somehow pulls together a plate of cheese and bread and fruit. He leaves it for her on the counter, and helps himself to Blaise's ensuite bathroom.

It's not until he glances at the mirror that he sees the dried blood caked around his nostrils and the dark circles under his eyes. He's seen this version of himself before, weak and pathetic, breaking into tears in Moaning Myrtle's bathroom.

Underneath the hot water, he drops his head down into his chest and lets himself feel the exhaustion he'd held at bay until this moment. He takes his time in the shower, staying under the spray long after the sweat and grime are gone. And even after, he's still shaking because he had been so close to not going, and then she would have been –

"Fuck," he says aloud. "Just… fuck."

By the time he goes back to his room, she's fast asleep in his bed. He hesitates briefly before crawling in beside her.

* * *

He sleeps for thirteen hours, and even so, her eyes are still closed when he wakes. Groggily, he reaches for his phone and switches it on.

Blaise (5:03 pm): That's too bad man. Let me know if you feel up to it later. I can come back to get you whenever.

His lips turn up a little. Fucking Blaise, good-natured to a goddamn fault. He'll have to make it up to him later.

Other than the single text from Blaise, there are several Instagram notifications from Pansy, mostly selfies of her and Trevor with the Almalfi coast in the background.

"Are they in Italy?" Granger's voice is soft and sleepy. She's curled up into his side, peering with squinted eyes at his phone.

"Yeah," he says. "It's Blaise's mum's birthday. Every year, she throws a big hurrah at their villa in Ravello."

"Mmm." She shifts closer to see the images better. "I've been to Ravello, a few summers ago with my parents. It's quite nice there, isn't it?"

He doesn't know how to acknowledge the sadness in her voice. After a silence, he presses a kiss to her forehead. Then, he withdraws his arm from beneath her head and sits up.

"Where are you going?"

"I'm starving. Aren't you?"

"But won't they –"

"They won't be back for days. Come on. I think I can figure out how to make pancakes."

The worst part, or maybe the best, is that he likes having her in his kitchen with him. She's sitting at the bar, wearing his T-shirt which barely covers her bum, watching him bemusedly as he scrutinizes the instructions on the back of the pancake mix box.

If only it were just this – two people making breakfast in a state of half-undress. And the smell of strong, Earl Grey tea with milk and sugar. And nothing to do except to enjoy each other.

If only they didn't have to have the conversation they've been delaying since yesterday afternoon, when he found her collapsed amidst destabilizing dark magic. If only he wasn't Death Eater scum, and her, a revered savior of the wizarding world.

* * *

"Just ask," she says after breakfast. "I know you're dying to. You're getting all morose again."

He shakes his head. He doesn't want the peace to be over yet. They've decided to venture down to the beach. He's lent her one of his jumpers to wear over her linen top and jeans. He feels odd in the pit of his stomach to see her donning something of his in public, and to stroll with her barefoot along the border of wet sand and foamy waves. He's never spent time like this with a girl before, at least not in a way that meant anything. And he's so very aware that this isn't supposed to mean anything either.

"I'm always morose," he replies after a pause. "It's part of my brooding charm."

She makes a frustrated sound, but he can see the corners of her mouth twitching upwards.

"Let's just get it done with," she insists, pulling him back from the water edge towards dry sand.

They sit and minutes pass as they watch joggers and muggles with dogs strolling across the beach.

"Just ask," she says again. "Not that any of it will matter in three days' time."

He clears his throat. "That's your deadline?"

"Yes," she answers softly.

He looks towards the waves and remains silent. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see her waiting for him to say something more.

When he doesn't, she takes a deep breath and begins talking. "I pushed it a bit further last night. The man I've been sleeping with. I know you know who I'm talking about. He's their neighbor, you see? Quite good friends with my father actually. The perfect control test."

He can feel anger tightening his gut, but he forces himself to remain calm and think through the logic behind what she's telling him.

"Because the spell is iterative…" he realizes.

"Exactly," she nods. "In the design of the original spell, if person A were to speak to my parents, any memory of me would be stripped from their minds. And if person B were to speak to person A, person B would have all memories of me removed too. And so on."

"So, if he remembers you night after night despite interacting with your parents, then that means the reversal is working."

"Yes, exactly right."

"So, what happened yesterday?"

"You see, I brewed a potion to protect my own mind from forgetting myself. As he recognized me several times in a row, the next logical step was to go see him without taking the potion. As a failsafe, I set up the untraceable protective circle deep in the forest, away from where unsuspecting muggles might perturb it. In the event that I feel myself slipping, I would portkey over and cast an emergency severing of the so-called newly formed threads of the curse."

He thinks back to months ago, when she had disappeared into the forest for a week.

"It's gone wrong before," he states flatly. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the map. "I saw it happen."

Her eyes widen slightly as she looks down at the two dots on the map. For once, "You Are Here" and "H.G." are side-by-side on the parchment.

"I thought you might have made something like this," she says, fingering the parchment. "It's quite good magic."

He doesn't reply. He's afraid, he realizes, for now that he's shown his hand, she might take it away.

She doesn't though. "Thank you," she says instead. "For coming for me. I barely made it through the first time, and yesterday, the clearing had become quite unstable. I'm not certain I could have completed the spell in time."

He scoffs incredulously. "Not certain you could have completed the spell in time? Merlin, Granger, you were passed out on the forest floor when I found you."

She looks away. "I wasn't unconscious, just resting my eyes. Trying to summon the energy to push through."

"Sure, you were." He frowns. "I still don't get why you fucked him."

"Through experimentation," she says stoically, "I realized that carnal activity strengthened the force of the spell. It was a better test that way, a more efficient one."

"What sort of experimentation?"

"What do you think?"

He narrows his eyes at her.

She avoids his gaze, looking down at her hands as they twist edge of his sweater. "He has a penchant for call girls. It was an easy way to get close to him."

"So, you used your body."

She turns to him then, her brown eyes wide as they reflect the overcast sky. "I would have done anything. Would do anything. Surely, you realize that by now."

"Why'd you sleep with me then?" He blurts the question out before he can stop himself.

She goes back to torturing the hem of his jumper.

"It was supposed to be fun is all. When you were 'Drew,' you seemed like a no-strings someone I could feel good with for a few hours. The money was a much-needed bonus. After my parents left, I had quite limited funds. Harry gave me a loan of course, but the ministry is tracking galleons for dark magic activity. Getting muggle money for supplies – let's just say I wasn't about to turn it down."

"You sleep with anyone else for money?"

"Not for money. No."

He mulls over the unsaid in her words. "Just more fucking for fun then?" He winces inwardly at the bitterness in his voice.

"Yes," she says shortly. "But it… it was all anonymous and meant nothing. Not unlike you wearing glamours to sleep with random muggle women you find at bars."

She has an edge to her voice, as if daring him to deny his hypocrisy. He doesn't rise to the bait.

"I would have given you all the muggle currency you wanted, you know." He laughs dryly. "It's really all I'm good for these days."

"Don't say that!" She slaps the sand for emphasis, splashing small grains into the air. "I can't stand that you think that. I've told you, I don't want that from you. It would have ruined it."

"Ruined what?"

"Being with you."

He reaches for her then, and when he kisses her, she lets out a small sob against his lips. "I just wish-," she begins.

"Shhh." He brushes his hand over her hair. "I know."

"If things were different –"

"But they're not."

She doesn't say anything in response. After a moment, she leans her head into his side and for a few minutes, he pretends that they're a couple sitting together on the beach, enjoying the rhythmic tide and squawks of seabirds overhead.

* * *

END OF CHAPTER 9

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:**

**Hello lovelies! As promised, I didn't wait another four months between updates. There's only two more chapters left, and I need to write them both before I upload again, so it might be another minute before the next update.**

**Next, OMG thank you thank you thank you to everyone who took the time to give support and feedback for this story. It's honestly so helpful for me as a writer to know your thoughts as you make your way through this possibly confusing and possibly overly smutty plot. I would love to know what you think of this chapter, especially since more plot bits have been revealed.**

**PS - Sorry (?) for no smut this chapter. Unfortunately (?), it just didn't seem to fit.**

**PPS - This might be a good time to admit that I've never actually been to Australia and literally all the Sydney references are from looking at google maps. If you happen to be an Aussie or someone that's been to Sydney, and notice that elements of this story are way off base, please let me know!**

**xoxo,**

**bourbonrain**


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